2 Sons: Call of Duty
by Harlee Quinn
Summary: Marlowe returns home after a 10-year absence and is manipulated by her brother to come to Charming. There she is thrown headfirst into his dangerous MC life and into the path of Jax Teller. Can Marlowe find a place among the Club, heal the breach between her and Happy and develop a relationship with Jax despite the fact that he has an old lady? Story 1 of the '2 Sons' Trilogy.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

**A/N****: My newest universe entitled "2 Sons" will tell the story of Jax Teller and Happy Lowman. Fresh out of Stockton Prison, two Sons—each with a different temperament and agenda—find themselves pulling together during the most turbulent time in the Club's history. As loyalties shift within SAMCRO, hard choices will need to be made and anyone's life could be at risk.**

**This fiction will incorporate canon from every season with a healthy dose of AU material. My hope is that this universe will be more realistic, deeply-detailed and grittier than anything I have written before. While this universe centers around Jax and Happy, it has been developed so that the entire and wonderful SOA cast of characters is heard from at some point. 2 Sons is intended to be a sweeping saga combining the criminal aspect, black comedy, tragedy and romance that we are familiar with thanks to the genius that is Kurt Sutter. My goal is to complete a trilogy of stories in this universe, the first of which is Call of Duty. **

**Two OCs will be introduced in this universe and they will both have a direct effect on Jax and Happy. I hope that readers will take a chance to get to know these two characters, whom I believe are special in their own way. The first to make an appearance will be Marlowe Guthrie, an "outsider" of sorts and my second attempt at creating an OFC (the first being Jolene Morrow). Please check my profile for the awesome artwork created by Bobbysidjit, as well as additional links to pictures of my Marlowe. I should warn you guys ahead of time that it's going to take a minute before all of the central characters meet up in Charming as I needed to give you guys some time to get to know each character's personality, back stories and personal struggles, so please be patient with me. **

**Now I know there are some readers who don't care for multiple OCs in one universe or an OFC _and_ Tara, but them are da breaks this time around! Just give it a fair shot, will ya? :)**

**This story has been in development for well over a year, but has been on the back burner until I could wrap up several other stories first. In my mind, I have a certain tone and methodology that I want to convey, so this story has been carefully researched and scripted over a period of time and only now am I starting to post it chapter by chapter, having banked nearly twenty chapters to date. Depending on the response I get from you, I may decide to post two chapters a week for the short term, so your reviews will play a big part in that decision.**

**Marlowe won't be Jolene 2.0, but I do hope that if you decide to read this story, you'll stick with it. If not, I hope you will continue reading the Jaxene Universe, which I intend to return to some time in the near future. And if you find that neither universe interests you, the great thing about this website is that there is something for everyone and I wish you well and much enjoyment in checking out other stories! (Walking Dead fics are a particular fav of mine.)**

**Your reviews are very important and the more explicit they are in the details, the more they help and encourage me. It takes a lot of time and effort to share the crazy thoughts inside my head, so I really appreciate it when people not only take the time to read my work but to also share with me how it made them feel. It doesn't take a lot of time to fill in that box at the end of a chapter and it truly lights up my world when I hear from you.**

**When it comes to reviews, my skin has sufficiently thickened over the last two years, so I genuinely appreciate criticism of my stories when done in a way that is not mean-spirited and is meant to help me improve the story. However, I'm not interested in taking pot shots from disgruntled readers and there is a very thin line between providing constructive criticism and being just plain spiteful. I've been really lucky that the majority of my reviewers have been great and extremely kind, but there have been a handful of times when the flaming was not appreciated. If you must flame, please do me the courtesy of signing in so I may have the opportunity to respond. Otherwise, anonymous flames will be ignored and/or deleted.**

**Whew! I needed to get that off my chest. The plan going forward is to eliminate the need for author's notes entirely. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to PM me or drop me a line at harleequinn518 at . I'd love to hear from more than just the voices in my head!**

**Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy Call of Duty!**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Friday, January 30, 2009**_

"Come on, you piece of shit!" Marlowe growled under her breath. "Just a couple more fuckin' miles, for chrissakes! Please, don't fail me now," she begged as she gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white and rattled it angrily.

Marlowe quickly stopped her pointless act of aggression, however, as it suddenly felt almost wobbly in her grasp. It would serve her right to lose control of the POS if she had further loosened the steering wheel to the point that it came flying off. Marlowe made a mental note of just another thing that was wrong with her "new" car.

The inconsistent rat-a-tat knocking of the 1999 Ford Escort's engine had started about an hour into the 3½-hour drive. It had steadily increased from that of a dull whisper to a very consistent thrumming as the car's lone occupant made her way first on the I-5N and then the CA-99N. Marlowe had taken a calculated risk buying a car from the first smarmy used car salesman she came across back in Miramar, but the idea of taking a Greyhound bus to Bakersfield had been particularly unappealing.

Actually, the thought of willingly spending a significant amount of time crowded into an enclosed space with complete strangers made her flesh crawl. She'd had enough of that shit to last her a lifetime. Besides, having her own means of transportation was more suited to Marlowe's independent spirit which had been stifled and nearly suffocated for far too long. Unfortunately, she let the unpleasant thought of spending another night within the confines of San Diego impact her better judgment and, in her haste to escape, it was becoming increasingly clear that she had bought herself a fuckin' lemon.

Marlowe reached out to fiddle with the radio's preset buttons, hoping to find another station. Anything would be better than the twangy voice of some female country singer crooning about her man doing her wrong, yet loving him despite all of his unforgivably shitty antics. The radio, it seemed though, was a piece of crap like the rest of the car because she kept getting nothing but static. What she needed was the jarring noise of some hard rock to distract her from her nervous anticipation, which had caused her shoulders to tense and her stomach to shrivel into a tight ball of angst the closer she got to Bakersfield. To distract herself, Marlowe took in the shabby interior of her most recent purchase and cataloged the numerous ways she had gotten screwed.

_Maybe I should have let that slimy asshole at the dealership screw me blind for a better ride at the same price like he offered_, Marlowe thought, wrinkling her nose as she recalled the leering face of the middle-aged Lothario with the greased back hair and leathery tanned skin. _Nice to know the world hasn't changed all that much in the last two years_.

Ultimately, Marlowe had declined the offer of a "special discount" and settled on the Escort, even though she would have much preferred the even older, but serviceable 4×4 Jeep Wrangler she had eyed first. The Wrangler, however, had been almost $2500 more and money wasn't exactly growing on trees nowadays and digging into her one and only savings account to buy a car, even a cheap one, would put a good-sized dent in it.

With no job and no hope of one on the horizon any time soon, her meager savings were all Marlowe had left to fall back on. After all, there was no way to know if the welcome mat would be rolled out for her once she got home. That is if she could even call Bakersfield home after a ten-year absence. But in spite of her fears of a lukewarm reception, Marlowe knew that the small white house with dark blue trim and slate gray shutters was probably the only real home she had ever known. And when you felt broken and bruised and needed a safe harbor where you could lick your wounds and pick up the pieces of a broken life, there really was no place like home.

Narrowing her gold-flecked gray eyes, Marlowe noted the signs for the exit onto California Avenue. Just another mile or two and she would be home again.

_And then, God help us all_.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Amelia Lowman received the shock of her life.

Picking up the universal remote from the coffee table, Amelia shut the television off with a sigh. The sudden silence fell like a heavy blanket over the small living room and reverberated in her head. Amelia couldn't abide such quiet, but neither could she tolerate the droning commentary of Charlie Rose nor the inane chatter of late-night talk shows. Lately it seemed that nothing was enough to distract her from the fact that she was bored to death. Always alone and mostly confined to the house, Amelia's boredom almost had her desperate enough to consider giving her sister a call and inviting her to spend the night. But while Amelia wanted company, she wasn't in the mood to fight with her baby sister. Celia's current bone of contention was Amelia's situation and she wasn't interested in rehashing the same old shit again.

Bracing one hand on the armrest and the other on the handle of her quad cane, Amelia slowly pushed herself up from the comfortable, but well-worn recliner and made her way to the kitchen. It was slow going at first as the articular cartilage damage in her right knee was only getting worse, but short of having surgery there really was no help for it. With medications and home remedies rarely helping to alleviate the pain nowadays, her bad knee was just one of many ailments she had learned to live with.

In spite of the considerable pain she seemed to suffer from on a near-daily basis, walking into her kitchen almost always brought a smile to Amelia's face. It was easily the biggest room in her small house and her most favorite. Surrounded by the knickknacks she had collected over the years or had received as gifts, gleaming pots and pans hung from a wrought iron rack over the kitchen island as bottles of flavored olive oils dotted the counter and pots of fresh herbs sat on the windowsill. Filled to the brim, several bins held the garden fresh vegetables that were staples of the Cuban cuisine of her childhood in Miami, such as onions, peppers, plantains and yucca and the room smelled richly of spices like saffron and coriander.

The bright yellow paint on the walls contrasted beautifully with the cherry wood of the brightly shining cabinets that Amelia had only recently polished herself with lemon oil. She had been feeling better than usual on that particular day and, deciding to make the best of it, had accomplished the task by standing on an old stool. Unfortunately, getting caught by her sister during one of her unannounced visits had been the basis of their last argument and the reason Amelia hadn't spoken to Celia in over a week.

_Maldita! Had I broken a hip, it would have been all Ceci's fault. She scared the crap out of me sneaking in the back door like that_, Amelia thought to herself irritably as she bustled around the kitchen island. Grabbing the red tea kettle sitting on a trivet, she filled it with water before placing it on one of the six burners of her oversized white enamel stove.

Grabbing her favorite mug, Amelia dropped a Tetley tea bag into it and grabbed a small plate from one of the cupboards. In the mood for a piece of Entenmann's guava and cheese danish, she was heading over to the sturdy oak table on the other side of the kitchen but paused, thinking she had heard what sounded like a car pull into her driveway.

"That cannot be Ceci at this hour," Amelia reasoned with herself as she grabbed her cane and slowly puttered her way to the front door.

* * *

_Well, here goes nothing_, Marlowe thought grimly as she stepped out of the car.

Slamming the door behind her, she stopped at the edge of the walkway and looked up at the house. Marlowe couldn't remember the last time she had let her nerves get away from her like this. As soon as she passed Beale Park and turned onto Oleander Avenue, she had to physically fight the urge to slam on the brakes and turn the car around. She had pushed herself, however, to finish the journey she had started earlier that day which finally brought her back home.

Despite the late hour and its darkness, Marlowe could see the house quite clearly and marveled over the fact that it had not changed all that much. Its wide porch ran along the front and wrapped around the right side of the house, an esthetic concession that had been made to distract from the fact that the house was relatively small. On it were two old fashioned rocking chairs that as far as Marlowe could remember had always been there. She had spent many hours after school sitting on the warm wood of the sun bleached porch floor as Amelia gossiped socially with her neighbors while snapping string beans. If she closed her eyes, Marlowe could almost smell the flowers and tomatoes Amelia used to grow in oversized clay pots, along with the sweet scent of green peas that grew on vines along the trellis.

Bracing herself for possible rejection, Marlowe's long strides made quick work of eating up the walkway to the front door. Before she could place her combat booted foot on the first step, however, the porch light flicked on and illuminated the front door, its screen door tightly secured. Suddenly, the door was flung open and there in the doorway stood a tall figure. The glare of the porch light prevented Marlowe from seeing more than just a shadowy outline before the screen door squeaked open and someone slowly stepped out.

Marlowe could barely swallow the sudden lump in her throat as her eyes took in the woman standing above her. She shouldn't be as surprised as she was. After all, it was to be expected that Amelia would look older after so many years. What Marlowe hadn't expected was for her to look so frail.

Despite that frailty, however, Amelia's face still reflected the undeniable beauty of her youth. Pale skinned with dirty blonde hair as a child, Marlowe remembered wishing she had been blessed with Amelia's caramel skin tone, strong cheekbones, warm, almost honey-brown eyes, and strongly defined chin. The soft lines creasing the corners of her eyes and the laugh lines around her full mouth could not distract from the beauty of her oval face. Her long, sable-colored hair devoid of all gray was pulled back into an intricate roll at the nape of her long, slender neck. The dark blue housecoat she wore was draped over a figure that had lost much of its voluptuousness. The cane gripped in a liver-spotted, yet well-manicured hand spoke volumes, and yet Amelia said nothing.

Marlowe moistened her lips and found that her throat was so dry that she was barely able to croak out the words, "Hey, Tía."

A soft gasp was followed by a softly uttered exclamation. "Aye, Dios mio!"

As Marlowe slowly made her way up the porch steps, she watched as first Amelia's hands reached up to clasp themselves together as if in prayer before she extended her arms to pull Marlowe to her. As the older woman wrapped her thin arms around her shoulders, Marlowe buried her face into the crook of Amelia's neck and squeezed her back gently, afraid she would break her. As Amelia continued making loud proclamations in Spanish, Marlowe finally let loose with the tears she had been holding back for what seemed like forever as she finally heard the words she had needed to hear for so long.

"Mi hijita querida! Por fin regresaste a tu casa!"

* * *

"Two years, Marley! Two fuckin' years, cabrona, and not one damned phone call?!" Amelia raged as she looked down on the young woman she had practically raised as a daughter.

Sitting at the kitchen table like when she was a child, Marlowe kept her hands folded on her lap and her eyes downcast as Amelia bore down on her with unrelenting brown eyes. After all, she wasn't entirely surprised that Amelia would angrily rail away at her for thirty minutes, especially since as far as the older woman knew, Marlowe was dead or, at the very least, missing.

_Silly me for thinking that Tía was looking kind of frail._

After happily pulling Marlowe into the kitchen and sitting her at the table, Amelia grabbed the Tupperware bowl with a whole, cut up chicken she had marinating in the refrigerator and quickly whipped together arroz con pollo, green salad with fresh avocado and sweet fried plantains. It was one of Marlowe's favorite meals and Amelia's way of killing the fatted calf for her prodigal daughter. After stuffing her with several steaming plates of the fluffy yellow rice with olives, pimentos and chucks of flavorful chicken, Amelia remembered why she had every right to be royally pissed off at the young woman and proceeded to let her have it with both barrels.

The mix of English and Spanish with a liberal sprinkling of curses and thinly-veiled threats of bodily harm was to Marlowe's ears part of the happy soundtrack from her childhood as a member of the Lowman household. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much she had missed having someone care for her that much and suddenly felt a wave of guilt for forgetting. So after stuffing herself with the good food that Amelia was known all over the neighborhood for, Marlowe figured that taking her shit like a man would be her penance and sat quietly as Amelia continued to rant.

After venting two years of pent up frustration and fear, Amelia finally found herself winding down as Marlowe patiently waited for her to calm down. To Amelia's way of thinking, it just showed how much the girl had changed since leaving California, and she shook her head with wonder as she pondered these subtle changes in her personality. Initially, it appeared that Marlowe Guthrie had not physically changed all that much in the ten years she had been gone from Bakersfield. Yet, looking into her gray eyes and noting the shadows in them, Amelia saw beyond the strange, quiet attitude to the woman underneath. Her heart ached as she wondered just what kind of shit Marlowe had gotten herself into since they had last spoken over two years ago.

Suddenly, Amelia felt overwhelmingly tired and fumbled to pull out a chair. Quickly jumping to her feet, Marlowe gently grabbed her by her slight shoulders and carefully guided Amelia until she was comfortably settled in the chair.

"Now that you're finished tearing me a new asshole," Marlowe said with a raised eyebrow, "maybe you can finally enjoy that cup of tea." She motioned to the neglected mug with its unused tea bag inside.

"Actually, I think I'd prefer some coffee," Amelia replied, sounding slightly winded.

"Really? It's almost three in the morning," Marlowe queried.

"I'm old. I don't need to sleep as much as I want some coffee," Amelia insisted.

Making her way to the cupboard, from memory Marlowe was able to locate the large canister of Café Bustelo and the raw cane sugar Amelia kept in a pretty blue and white-speckled canister. Retrieving the stove top espresso maker kept in its customary place in the cabinet above the sink, Marlowe started the process of making proper Cuban coffee.

Amelia smiled as she watched Marlowe puttering around her kitchen. "It's good to see that you haven't forgotten everything I taught you."

"It would be pretty hard to forget since I learned from the best," Marlowe replied with a slight smile as she concentrated on the task at hand.

Going to another cupboard, she pulled out tiny white cups and matching saucers and set them on the table. Finally pouring out two servings of the rich, creamy and sweetly thickened coffee, the two women settled down in silence as they sipped on their Café Cubano. Hit with sudden nostalgia, Marlowe realized just how much she had missed this kitchen and the companionable silence she shared with the woman that had been such a force in her life.

Now as Amelia placed the small cup on its saucer with a slight click, Marlowe realized that the time for reminiscing on the past was over. "So, do you want to fill me in on why you haven't bothered to pick up the phone to call me in two years, hija?"

Marlowe slumped against the high-backed chair and sighed. The response to that logical query would be a difficult conversation to have and one that she would have to ease herself into. Right now wasn't the time, but Marlowe knew that for now she owed Amelia something of an answer.

"I guess you could say I got a little caught up in my work," she offered hesitantly without really saying much at all.

"A 'little caught up', Marley?" Amelia questioned, her voice rife with doubt. "A month, maybe even two I can understand, but it's been _twenty-six_. I know that what you do makes it difficult to stay in touch, but _nothing_ for over two years? Not even a postcard. Is it any wonder why I was so worried? I thought you were dead."

"I know, Tía, and I'm so sorry, but it was unavoidable," Marlowe lied. "You don't have to worry about me any more, though because I'm home for good." She watched with bated breath as Amelia's shoulders slackened and the pinched look on her face softened into an expression of relief. Hopefully, that would be enough of an explanation for now.

"¿De verdad, querida?" Amelia reached over to cover Marlowe's hand with her own, her eyes wide and moist. "No more adventures?"

Marlowe shook her head, trying hard to hide her own sadness in light of the joy beaming at her from Amelia's face. "That's a done deal for me, Tía." _Not that I had a choice, but it__'s not like I __could really deal with that shit anyway._

Amelia let her right hand rest over her heart and laughed, giddy with relief. "I can't say that I'm sorry because I'm not. I know I told you that I would always support your decision, but in my heart I never wanted that life for you, Marley. And you know I wasn't alone on that—" Amelia started, but Marlowe cut her off.

"Maybe, but at least you didn't act like a flaming asshole about it," she retorted, now even more put off by the conversation, something she hadn't thought possible.

"Marley, your brother—"

"Is a flaming asshole and _not_ my brother. He got off on acting more like my father than anything else," she replied angrily.

Not at all surprised by the sudden turn in conversation, Amelia was glad to see the spark return to the eyes of the young woman she had never known as having a problem speaking her mind. "Only because he loves your stubborn ass," Amelia said quietly. "You can't really fault him for that."

In the span of five minutes, Marlowe felt herself regressing into the petulant tween Happy had dumped on his mother so many years ago as she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he loves me _soooo_ _much_ that he hasn't spoken to me in _ten fuckin' years_."

"Because you're not as pig-headed as he is, right?" Amelia countered evenly. "If I didn't know better, I would say he is indeed your father because you're just as bad as he is. You could have just as easily reached out to him, you know."

With no snappy barb at the ready to aim at Amelia's son, Marlowe relented. "And you know, I really hate when you take that quiet rational tone with me."

"Because you know I'm right and it pisses you off. Just another way you are so much like Enrique," Amelia retorted with a sly grin.

Marlowe narrowed her gaze at Amelia. "Maybe, but there's absolutely no question as to where he got it from, now is there?"

From the moment Marlowe had laid eyes on her surrogate mother, a nagging sensation had settled in the pit of her stomach. She had been so happy and relieved to have been welcomed back with open arms that Marlowe had avoided acknowledging that there was something wrong. Now that Amelia had opened the door to unpleasant topics—at least that's what Marlowe considered any conversation involving Happy—she realized that she couldn't avoid it any longer.

"You're sick, aren't you?" Marlowe asked calmly and without panic. She quickly internalized the shock of pain that shot through her heart when Amelia nodded matter of fact.

"Yes, I am." Pulling at the neckline of her housecoat, Amelia reached inside to pull out a soft piece of silicone and with a smirk tossed it into Marlowe's lap.

Momentarily perplexed, Marlowe looked down to examine the soft but fleshy lump before raising startled eyes to look into Amelia's wry face.

"What the fuck, Tía?"

* * *

**Glossary**

**Tía**: Aunt

**Maldita**: Damn (used as an expletive).

**Aye Dios mio**: Oh my God.

**Mi hijita querida**: my beloved (or darling) little girl (daughter).

**Por fin regresaste a tu casa**: You've come home at last.

**¿De verdad, querida****?**: Is that true?

**C****abrona**: bitch


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for the warm reception my new story has received from both old and new reviewers! I love you all! Please keep the reviews coming. Many thanks and hugs, Harlee.**

**For those of you who wondered****: (1) The plan is to introduce Marlowe's back story, as well as the back story of other characters, little-by-little, threading it throughout the story. Marlowe has a history and, in my opinion, it's an interesting one; and (2) Yes, I am definitely still doing an Ellie/Tiki story. I'm still working on an outline, but its coming.**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Friday, February 6, 2009**_

Marlowe was on the floor, using an old-fashioned wooden brush with hard bristles to vigorously scrub the tiles in Amelia's kitchen. Back when she had been growing up, Marlowe would have considered such a task punishment for one of her usual misdeeds, such as fighting in school or talking back to teachers. Nowadays, she had to admit that the mindless repetitiveness of hard, menial work had therapeutic qualities which helped quiet the noise in her head. Strangely enough, it seemed to relax her.

_Definitely seems to work better than Lexapro and Ativan_, Marlowe thought as she dunked a rubber-gloved hand into the bucket of soapy water to rinse the scrub brush.

Although the temperature had made it into the mid-50s, there was a slight chill in the air. Marlowe barely noticed it, however, as the sun shone through the open windows and beat down on her back. The thorough cleaning she was in the midst of giving the floor was causing her to sweat, so she had pulled her long and wavy light caramel-colored hair into a messy top knot. Not only did the unflattering up-do keep the hair from sticking to her face as she worked, but it also exposed her long and graceful neck to the breeze. She had already stripped down to a fitted black tank top, but that had done nothing except draw attention to her ripped biceps and the half-sleeve tattoo of an intricate portrait of Bettie Page on her upper left arm. Wearing a pair of army green cargo shorts and her ever-present combat boots, Marlowe's calf muscles strained with little effort as she crouched on her haunches, bending over to reach a particularly difficult corner near the stove.

The very familiar task she was performing brought back old but vivid memories of the skinny and undefined teenager on the cusp of womanhood she had been and who hated Amelia's kitchen floor with a passion. Looking at it now, the collection of small yellow and light blue tiles was actually quite beautiful but, for a clean freak like Amelia Lowman, woefully impractical as it was almost impossible to keep the dirt from accumulating in the grooves separating the tiles by mopping alone. Those thin white lines of tile caulking had been the bane of her teenaged existence as every few weeks Marlowe had to get down on her hands and knees and scrub them back into their pristine condition. She remembered grumbling angrily a lot under her breath and behind Amelia's back about how she was violating California's child labor laws. In hindsight, Marlowe was truly grateful to have learned early on that being truly tired and fatigued at the end of a long day meant you have given your all in doing a job well-done. She had also learned—the hard way—that not having to re-scrub the tiles with a damn toothbrush was worth the effort of doing the job right the first time around.

_I'm sure Tía would have made one hell of a drill sergeant_, Marlowe smirked to herself.

For the last few weeks, Marlowe had been burning off excess energy by cleaning and making what repairs she could to Amelia's home. The older woman had OCD-like tendencies when it came to cleanliness and order, so the house had been for the most part immaculate. But with Amelia's failing health, she had allowed certain tasks to accumulate until she was feeling better, which hardly ever happened on the regular anymore. Marlowe had been more than happy to volunteer her services and pick up the slack. After all, it was the least she could do for the woman who had gone out of her way to help an often neglected and unwanted child, one of many that lived in the poor working class neighborhood.

No amount of work around the house could ease her troubled heart, however, as she felt the now-familiar twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought about Amelia being sick. Although she had not been aware of the illness Tía had been fighting for two years, it wasn't like Marlowe could have done anything to help if she had. After a long and emotionally draining talk the week before, Amelia understood the reasons that had kept her away. Even if Marlowe had not seen fit to tell her what she had been up to the last two years, Amelia wasn't the type to hold a grudge. The epitome of the stubborn and proud Latin woman, Amelia would have been hard pressed to share this burden with her loved ones anyway. She was all about taking care of herself and dealing with shit on her own. Fortunately, with Happy for a son, dealing with breast cancer all alone was not an option. At the moment, that was about the only good thing Marlowe would allow herself to say about the only man that had ever been a constant in her life, whom she loved and hated with equal fervor since she was a little girl.

Instead, just like many other times during the last few weeks, whenever her mind wandered to thoughts of Happy, Marlowe would quickly shut that nonsense down and think of something else. Now, as she moved to work on the other corner of the floor next to the stove, Marlowe started rehashing in her mind's eye her first night home. Sitting at the table, she had stupidly stared at the lump of silicone in the shape of a well-defined breast—nipple and all—that Tía had so casually tossed into her lap.

"What the fuck, Tía? You had a mastectomy?!"

Amelia threw her hands up. "It was either cut it off or die with my still-decent ta-tas at the ripe old age of 68," she cracked a smile as she shrugged her shoulders offhandedly. "Hija, I may have been vain when I was younger—and with good reason, mind you—but even I know that looks aren't everything."

A bat to the face would not have hit Marlowe as hard as when she sat and listened with varying degrees of emotion crossing her face as Amelia detailed the extent of her illness over the last two years.

"It was back in 2007 when the pain in my right arm and shoulder started. At first, I didn't give it much thought because you know how physical working in a hospital can be at times. I just assumed I had pulled something when lifting or moving shit around. Soon, it seemed that I was always in pain and sometimes I couldn't even lift my arm. I had called in sick a few times and my supervisor at work got on my case about seeing a doctor, but I never got around to it," Amelia explained. "Then one day, I was taking a shower and I found a lump the size of a marble in my armpit. To tell you the truth, I probably would have ignored it too if I didn't scream in pain every time I pressed on it. By the time my doctor gave me the news, I had already resigned myself to it. Then at the same time, this little bastard decides to start acting up again." She reached down to massage her right knee. "It was hard enough getting around with a bum knee. Add chemo to the mix and it was a miserable experience. It was all for nothing too because the cancer was too aggressive at that point. I was in danger of having it spread to my lymph nodes. If that happened, I would be well and truly fucked—the doctor's words, not mine, so we decided that the best treatment would be to cut it off. That was seven months ago."

Unfortunately, Marlowe learned, there had been complications and several months ago Amelia had ended up in a hospice. "It was a little touch and go for a while and I really thought I was about to check out, but I started improving. It was slow going at first, but things started to turn right side up for me and my boy did his part to keep me going."

She had been released from the hospice less than a month before, but it would be a long time before Amelia could return to work. Even if she managed to have knee surgery, her doctor had recommended that she consider retiring, despite Amelia's insistence on returning to work once her cancer was fully in remission. Marlowe's heart had sunk in her chest as Amelia recounted her situation. The knowledge that she hadn't been there when she could have been useful made her feel even more ashamed of herself, and she hadn't thought that was possible. Knowing that the asshole had stepped up was only of small comfort to her, at best.

"Well," Marlowe had managed to smile despite the massive lump in her throat. "I'm here now and if you don't mind putting me up for a while, maybe I can help fatten you up a little and take care of some shit around the house while I figure out what I'm doing next."

Amelia had arched an eyebrow. "You are always welcome home, Marley, but I'm not looking for a caretaker," she said cautiously.

"I never said you were," Marlowe placated her gently, "but is it such a crime for me to worry about the cooking and cleaning while you rest up and recoup your strength?"

"I guess it's not a crime, hija," Amelia laughed, "and I appreciate the offer, but making coffee is as far as you go. I don't like anyone but me using my stove."

In spite of the late hour, they had enjoyed another cup of espresso as Marlowe managed to steer the conversation away from herself by quizzing Amelia on the latest neighborhood gossip and what her sister Ceci had been up to lately. After, Marlowe quickly restored Amelia's kitchen back to its pristine state and went out to her car to retrieve her one bag containing all her worldly possessions. As Marlowe started making her way towards the back of the house to her old room, Amelia stopped her and insisted that she use the third bedroom instead. "I'm afraid that your room has become something of a storage unit for Happy's crap, crates and boxes of shit. You can use his room for now."

And so Marlowe was making do with the room, which was still pretty much how she remembered it. Sparse and testosterone-filled, it wasn't anything Marlowe wasn't used to. The bed was comfortable and there was just enough drawer space for her belongings. It also had its own en suite bathroom and even though the shower stall was tiny, the water pressure and temperature were just perfect. After a long, relaxing shower, Marlowe had bedded down for what she knew would be another sleepless night. She had spent what was left of that night staring at the stuccoed ceiling and making a mental list of what Amelia might need her to do, but was too proud to ask.

Hearing the now-familiar step-thump-swish of Amelia's cane as she practically dragged her right leg, Marlowe looked up and over her shoulder to see the older woman standing at the entryway into the kitchen. "Looks like you've put a shine on that floor."

"Yeah," Marlowe wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, "I'm almost done here. I'll head to the grocery store after I clean myself up a bit."

"No rush," Amelia assured her. "But do you think that old clunker of yours can make the trip?" she asked. In the last three weeks, the Escort had died on Marlowe twice for no apparent reason. At least no reason that Marlowe could decipher since she really couldn't afford taking it to a mechanic. "You should really consider replacing that heap of junk."

Marlowe chuckled, "That heap's all I can afford right now. I'm sure it'll make it, though."

"If that's the case, Marley, I also need you to swing by Vivica's. She's got some organic vegetables coming in today that I need to make sofrito," Amelia said.

"Vegetables?" Marlowe queried with a raised eyebrow. "She's no longer fencing electronics and shit?"

"Of course, she is. That's her bread and butter," Amelia replied, "but I'm not interested in any of her 'other merchandise'. Just her tomatoes, peppers and onions. She's been branching out quite a bit lately and is growing some of her own shit, fresher than what you can get at the supermarket. Speaking of which, don't go to that supermarket over in Casa Loma. I rather give my money to Frankie's Market on Maple. He cuts his meat fresh to order and I want to make us a nice dinner tonight, and then we can watch Jeopardy. Just let me go get my list and my purse."

Marlowe shook her head wryly as she watched Amelia schlep her way back to the living room.

"Dinner _and_ Alex Trebeck?" Marlowe mumbled under her breath. "That might be just too much excitement for me to handle in one night."

If only Marlowe knew the half of it.

* * *

Stepping out of the bathroom, Marlowe used a large towel to dry her hair as she sat down at the edge of the double bed. Wearing nothing but another oversized blue towel wrapped around her torso, she crossed her leg at the knee, mindlessly bouncing her bare foot up and down as she thought about the day's events.

As much as the neighborhood had stayed relatively the same, what changes it had undergone were somewhat radical. Driving around town for the last couple of weeks, Marlowe had quickly re-familiarized herself with the neighborhood of her childhood. Within a fifteen-block radius there was a mix of low to middle-income housing, apartment blocks, and housing projects. The houses on Amelia's block seemed to be representative of that mix as they varied widely from one to the next. The houses not only differed in size, but in their condition as well, with some newly renovated while others bordered on being one step above condemnable. Depending on what block you lived on or even on what side of the street your house was located, life was either lived in simple comfort or abject squalor.

Amelia's house, elegant in its clean simplicity, was only a couple of blocks away from the house where Marlowe had grown up in extreme poverty.

Marlowe couldn't figure out what had possessed her to drive by that house today, but she suddenly found herself turning left when she should have turned right in order to do her grocery shopping. In a few minutes, she was parked in front of the home she had lived in on and off until she was 10 and had permanently moved in with Amelia.

Marlowe had been somewhat surprised to see that it was looking far better than it ever did when she had lived there so many years ago. The house had once been dilapidated with holes in the roof that let the rain in, causing the walls of her bedroom to grow mold. Now it seemed that its current owners had made many improvements, including a new roof, fixing the cracks in the foundation, and replacing the dirty and broken fence that had surrounded the once ugly gray house. Marlowe wondered about the family that lived there now and hoped that they were enjoying a much happier life than the one she'd had when she lived there with her mother.

At that moment, it dawned on Marlowe that she hadn't thought about her mother in well over five years, the last time being when she got the news that Shannon Guthrie had died destitute and alone at 45. It had come as a surprise to no one and Marlowe had no tears to spare for the woman who had been unwilling to help herself for the sake of her own daughter.

Once again pushing thoughts of her mother to the darkest recess of her mind, Marlowe instead concentrated on examining the now beautifully kept property with its neat front yard and the two child-sized bikes chained to a pole underneath the carport.

Unlike many of the unwanted or neglected children she had grown up with in the neighborhood, Marlowe had been lucky to have a halfway decent childhood with Amelia and the asshole. Marlowe smirked to herself, grateful that the medication she was on made it nearly impossible to cry even if she wanted to. Unwilling to put her meds to the test by thinking of Amelia's pride and joy, Marlowe turned her rust bucket around and made her way to Vivica Bradley's house.

Walking through the arched entrance way, she spotted the Haitian-born woman. Vivica was sitting on a patio-style chair on her semi-enclosed porch that overlooked the garden that stretched out on both sides of the walkway of the reasonably attractive and clean home. But before Marlowe could make her way up the walk, she suddenly found her path blocked.

"You got business here, white girl?" a rather large man, his skin the color of deep, rich dark chocolate, a basketball-sized belly and gleaming corn rows, asked belligerently.

Unperturbed, Marlowe casually eyed him up and down. Although he was massive in size, she quickly noted that all of his weight was from fat, not muscle. Marlowe straightened her shoulders, a hint of a smile on her face. If push came to shove, she could definitely take him. After all, she had taken him on once before, a long, long time ago, and won.

"Yeah, I got business. _With her_," Marlowe replied irritably as she pointed at the woman on the porch, "so you might wanna consider getting out of my face before I make _you _my business as well."

"Lutha! What the hell you doin'?" The woman's voice was musical. The accent was definitely French but with Caribbean overtones as well as a healthy dose of street attitude.

"I'm just handling shit, Ma," Luther replied, keeping his eyes on the tall, but slender woman in front of him, rolling to the balls of his feet in anticipation of a physical confrontation.

"Sheet, boi! The last time you tried _handling_ that bit o' business, she kicked your balls up into your throat. Now leave Miss Amelia's girl alone and let her come up and see me."

Luther's dark eyebrows shot up into his corn rows. "_Marley_? That you girl?" he said with disbelief.

"It be me," Marlowe nodded, allowing herself a huge smile. "How's it hanging, Luther?"

"Damn, girl! You know how it be, same old shit, different day," he replied, a slow even grin spreading across his face. "Haven't seen you in a minute."

"I've been away. How's Vandross?"

"He a'ight," Luther started, but was quickly interrupted by his mother.

"Lutha! Stop your jawin' and go see about that shit you need to see about," Vivica ordered. "You got business to tend to, so you best be about it before I have to slap some sense into that cat brain of yours," her amber-colored eyes flashed with a warning.

"Yeah, Ma, a'ight!" he said in a somewhat irritated tone as he moved out of Marlowe's way. "See ya around?"

"You might." Marlowe made her way up the steps and when offered, parked herself in the chair next to Vivica's. "I'm surprised you remembered me."

The woman shrugged as she continued to shell pea pods into the large plastic bowl on her lap. "My brain and my eyes are as good as they ever was, girl. You filled out some, but you still look the same, like your Mama before you. Been a long time since you were around these parts."

"Yeah," Marlowe nodded. "It has been."

"You just passing through?" Vivica inquired, her fingers flying as she fixed her eyes on the young woman sitting next to her.

"I'm thinking about staying for a while."

"Taking time off? I thought that career of yours kept you pretty busy. On the move all da time," Vivica commented.

Marlowe shrugged her shoulders. "Not any more. Cut that shit loose a while ago," she admitted candidly.

"Really?" Vivica raised an arched eyebrow. "You were doing that shit a long time, girl. Why you stop?"

"Let's just say I didn't really have much of a choice in the matter."

Vivica nodded sagely. "I see. You looking for work?"

"Not really."

Vivica smiled, not at all surprised that Marlowe was a woman of few words, just like her stepbrother. "Good. I know Amelia hasn't been well lately. It'll be good for her to have you around. And if I know her, I know you just didn't drop by to catch up on some old times." She stood up.

Marlowe stood up as well and pulled a crumpled list from the pocket of her jeans. "I understand you have some fresh organic veggies just lying around."

"Fresh right off the truck they fell off of." Vivica gave her a wicked smile. "Follow me to the back and let this Nubian Goddess hook you up."

* * *

Marlowe had spent the rest of the afternoon picking through the crated vegetables in Vivica's backyard before making her way down to Frankie's Market. Unlike the bigger supermarkets in the area, Frankie carried Amelia's favorite Cuban products. As Frankie rang her purchases up, Marlowe watched as Esteban, Frankie's brother, cut several lean pork chops fresh off the rack just the way he knew Amelia liked.

Once back home, she and Amelia had spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen, laughing and talking as they prepared dinner together. Amelia had even pulled out a bottle of homemade wine that Mrs. Esperanza from down the block had given her, but that she had been saving for a special occasion. Relaxing her self-imposed restriction on alcohol, Marlowe was able to down only half a glass of the sweet but potent wine as they enjoyed the grilled pork chops marinated in citrus juice and garlic and black beans and rice. Shooing Amelia out of the kitchen, Marlowe cleaned up before heading to the living room to watch _Jeopardy_, _Wheel of Fortune_, and a couple of telenovelas before Amelia decided to turn in for the night.

Not wanting to impose on the strong-willed woman's sense of independence, Marlowe quietly sat against the wall right outside Amelia's room, her ear open for any sign of distress. Once she had made sure that Tía didn't fall down in the bath tub, Marlowe had finally retreated, sure that Amelia was firmly settled in her bed. Going through her now-routine security check of the house and making sure all the doors and windows were locked, Marlowe finally made her way back to her room and a richly deserved shower.

Marlowe hated nights. She had hoped that once she moved back in with Amelia her sleep habits would return to something approaching normal. That, unfortunately, had not happened with Marlowe still sleeping an average of two to three hours a night. _If_ she was lucky. Today, however, had been particularly exhausting and she had hoped that her eyelids would at least start feeling heavy by now. Although she was physically tired, Marlowe was wide awake and decided to set herself up in the living room to channel surf and wait for sleepiness to creep in.

About to grab an oversized t-shirt to throw on, Marlowe's ears suddenly perked. It was faint and she was glad she had left her door slightly ajar or she may have not heard the sound of stealthy movement coming from the front of the house until it was too late. With her instincts and training kicking in, Marlowe quietly crept closer to the door and listened. She had no doubt now. There was definitely someone creeping around on the porch.

Not wasting time to throw on her discarded clothes that were folded into a neat pile on a chair, she secured the towel around herself and bent down to retrieve the sawed off shotgun she had found in Happy's closet. She was now very glad she had it and that she had taken the time to disassemble and give it a thorough cleaning before loading it and placing it and a box of shells under her bed. At the time, Marlowe had thought that she was being overly cautious because, even though it hadn't changed all that much, the neighborhood was relatively safe. But being more accustomed to sleeping with a weapon within reach than not, Marlowe thought that it was always better to be safe than sorry. She made a mental note to never doubt her paranoid sense of self-preservation again as it now appeared that some low life piece of scum was trying to break into an old woman's home.

Grabbing a leather sheath from her bedside table containing a six-inch KA-BAR, Marlowe quickly strapped it to her bare thigh. Picking the shotgun up from the bed, she flipped off the light switch so that the room was enveloped in darkness, making it possible for her to slide into the hallway unseen. With her back completely flat against the wall opposite Amelia's room, Marlowe could only hope that Tía was sleeping soundly enough that she wouldn't wake up at the wrong moment. The last thing she needed was the older woman in the midst of this impromptu shit storm.

_Shit! The fucker's definitely in the house, _Marlowe realized as she heard the front door close quietly behind the intruder. How he had managed to get inside without making a sound was something Marlowe would have to determine later. Right now, she needed to kick his ass.

Glad that the prick had decided to hit the house _after_ she had moved in, Marlowe held the shotgun diagonally across her towel-covered chest and carefully maneuvered herself down the short hall, avoiding the boards she knew were creaky. Reaching the end of the hallway, she slowly peeked around the corner and with her eyes accustomed to the darkness, spotted him easily. Taking a quick inventory, Marlowe estimated that he was at least 6'2 and 180-190 pounds and he was carrying what looked like a backpack casually slung over one shoulder.

_Probably to stuff with whatever valuables he could find_, Marlowe narrowed her eyes angrily.

Although it appeared he was wearing an oversized hoodie, she could tell from the set of his shoulders and his outline that he was built. Too bad Amelia had closed the living room drapes or she might have been able to get a better look at him with some moonlight. Still, she could tell he either had short or closely cropped hair and, taking a deep but quiet sniff of the air, that he was a smoker.

_The time for evaluating the sitch is over_, Marlowe coached herself grimly. _It's t__ime to deal with this fuckin' loser_.

Quietly sliding up behind him, Marlowe was about to announce herself when suddenly, the man whirled out, swinging the heavy bag straight at her.

_Fuck! _Marlowe inwardly screamed as she narrowly avoided the bag, the breeze of it slicing the air ruffling her damp hair as she ducked out of its way.

Holding the shotgun in front of her, one hand on the barrel and the other on the trigger, Marlowe wasn't prepared as the bag came whipping back from the opposite direction. It slammed into her arm, sending the shotgun spinning out of her grasp and landing somewhere on the carpeted floor of the dark room with a soft thud. Quickly crouching onto her haunches, Marlowe lashed out with her bare foot and wrapped it around the intruder's ankle. Tugging her leg back viciously, the man toppled over—

And landed right on top of her!

Grunting quietly under their breaths, the two rolled around on the floor, knocking into furniture. Grateful that her assailant was at least being quiet as he tried to overpower her, Marlowe suddenly heard a vase bounce on the carpet only to crash land on the hardwood floor of the hallway. Knowing that it would only be a matter of time before Amelia came out to investigate what had made that noise, Marlowe frantically tried to wriggle her way out of the intruder's iron clad grip to no avail. Pushing at him with her hip, she finally managed to get a solid blow into his solar plexus with her elbow, causing a whoosh of air out of the man's lungs.

She felt his grip loosen and even though Marlowe reasoned that she still had her knife strapped to her thigh, using it would require her getting close enough that he might overpower her again. Instead, she scrabbled away until she felt her hand close around the barrel of the shotgun. Flipping onto her back, Marlowe pumped a round into the chamber and aimed it at the intruder who had somehow managed to stumble onto his feet.

"Make a move, asshole," Marlowe taunted in a triumphant whisper, "if a belly full of lead is what you came here for."

It was her training that kept her from letting the weapon fall out of her grasp as she recoiled in shock when the gravelly voice spoke into the darkness. "Little girl, put that shit down before I take it from you and shove it straight up your ass."

_What the fuckin' fuck?!_

Leaping to her feet, Marlowe ran to the wall light and slapped a hand over it, instantly flooding the living room with light. As her eyes confirmed what her ears had heard, she opened her mouth and cut loose on the tall, bald-headed and muscular man staring holes into her with his angry black orbs.

"Shit a fuckin' brick, asshole! Can't you ring the fuckin' bell like a fuckin' human being? I almost blew your frickin' head off!"

"That wasn't gonna happen, Marley, especially since you lost your grip on the fuckin' gun," Happy Lowman crossed his arms over his chest. "And that's not the only thing you lost either, by the way." He let his intense dark gaze rove up and down Marlowe's naked body.

"Shit!" Marlowe swore loudly, almost stamping her foot down in frustration, as she looked down and saw the blue towel lying on the carpeted floor.

"Hija! While this is certainly an interesting reunion, maybe it would be better if you put some clothes on, no?" Amelia frowned severely as she watched her son and surrogate daughter exchange dirty looks. "Then maybe you can tell me why you attacked Kique."

"Me?! _Me_?!" Marlowe yelped indignantly. "He's the one that started this shit!" Bending over, she snatched up the towel and wrapped it around herself. "And you wonder why I haven't spoken to him in over ten years. Because once an asshole, always an asshole, that's why!" she said angrily as she stormed off towards her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

"I could say it's good to see that she ain't changed a damn bit," Happy growled as he stalked to the bathroom, "but why fuckin' lie?" Stopping briefly, he bent over to kiss his mother on her forehead before he continued stomping a path down the hall.

* * *

**Glossary**

**Kique:** Shortened form of Enrique


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Saturday, February 7, 2009**_

Sitting silently in her favorite armchair, Amelia Lowman watched as her son slept. Stretched out on the comfortable but worn sofa, his left arm lay across his eyes and his right arm was draped over his bare and muscled torso. The blanket and sheet she had pulled out for him the night before were now resting on the carpet in a tangled heap.

The contents of his pockets were resting on the coffee table directly in front of the sofa, including the black leather wallet she had given him more than ten years ago, a set of keys, a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a sterling silver Zippo embossed with a fiercely grinning Reaper, the logo of the MC he had belonged to for nearly twenty years. A pair of sunglasses and leather gloves were lying on what was probably his most-prized possession—his neatly folded leather kutte.

His second most-prized possession (or more than likely third, after his bike) was within arm's reach. The gleaming black Glock was lying directly parallel with his right hand on the coffee table, Amelia was sure, for lightning fast access should the need arise. A saddlebag was draped neatly over the armrest at the far end of the couch.

Letting her eyes travel the length of his bare torso, Amelia smiled wryly. Her son's love of tattoos had been an interest of his long before he had joined the Club. She had hoped that his love for drawing would have inspired him to pursue a career that would get him away from the streets—a graphic artist, or maybe even an architect. Although incredibly smart and focused when he wanted to be, Happy had held firm to the belief that a white collar life wasn't for him.

Instead, he spent much of his time running the streets and getting into trouble, never losing his love for drawing and sketching. At fifteen and behind her back, Happy had gotten his first tattoo from a man who would later go on to mentor him in the art while he learned his new trade on the job. Against her better judgment and the examples set by her and Celia, he dropped out of high school and started working full-time as a tattoo artist. Happy may have not been creating art in the classical sense, but he was making good money and, more importantly, it kept him off the streets.

So it was ironic that the incident that would eventually lead to him crossing paths with the Sons of Anarchy had occurred on the job and all because, instead of heading straight home after work one night, Amelia had decided to visit her son at his job at the tattoo parlor.

Unfortunately, coming to the defense of his mother had netted Happy an attempted murder charge and a five-month stay in Chino while he awaited trial. Although he was ultimately acquitted, irreparable damage had been done to her son as far as Amelia was concerned. Several members of the Club he now belonged to had taken Happy into their protection during those five months and according to him, for the first time in his life he felt like he belonged and cared for something greater than himself: the MC brotherhood.

Amelia remembered like it was yesterday the day her son had come home with the news that he had "patched in". In addition to the leather he now wore permanently on his back, he had inked into the skin around his collar bone a tattoo that read **I Live, I Die, I Kill for My Family**. It was as much a statement of his commitment to the band of outlaws he now called his family as it was to his own flesh and blood.

"You gonna sit there and stare at me all morning, Ma?" Happy's voice, raspy from sleep, echoed in the living room.

Amelia started as she realized that she had let herself drift away with her memories and that her son's eyes, squinting through narrowed slits, were focused on her. "I wasn't planning on it," she quipped. "You gonna lie about like a slug all morning?"

"I wasn't planning on it either." Propelling himself up into a sitting position, Happy stretched his arms up and out, his taut powerful frame bulging with muscles. Running a large hand over his bald head, Happy frowned as he felt the scratchiness of new stubble that matched the whiskers on his chin.

"Look at you, frowning over a little hair. You know, there are a lot of men who would happily switch places with you if it meant having a full head of hair at 43. But no," Amelia shook her head with a smirk. "For you to be happy, your head must resemble a baby's ass."

"Because that's the way I like it, Ma," Happy replied archly.

"And hiding the gray is just a side benefit, right?" Amelia teased.

Happy cocked his head and gave his mother a blank look. "I haven't seen you in a couple of weeks and all you gonna do is sit there and bust my balls?"

"And why not?" Amelia replied a little jauntily. She always felt a little frisky in her son's presence, not so tired and wilted like she always seemed to feel. "After all, I am half responsible for that beautiful head of thick black hair you had once upon a time. All the girls around the block were crazy about you because of it. Now you walk around all the time looking like a brown Skinhead," she continued to scold as she eyed him. "Nothing like mi bebecito."

Happy eyed the only woman who he had ever truly loved and would allow to call him her 'little baby'. "Ma, I'm a grown ass man," he started irritably, "and I like my shit the way I wear it, so stop nagging."

"I don't nag," his mother said as Happy barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying."

"Well, stop saying it, Ma because I'm not gonna change."

"No, I don't suppose you will." Amelia got up slowly and made her way to the windows to draw the curtains. The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the room, and she noted her son's bike parked at the curb. "Still riding that thing, huh?"

"I wouldn't ride anything else." Turning to his mother, Happy let his eyes travel up and down his mother's form. Although the expression on his face didn't change, he didn't like what he was seeing.

_Ceci was right. Ma is worn out._

Celia Lopez, his aunt and Amelia's younger sister, was not a woman that beat around the bush. When she didn't like something, Celia was not shy about voicing her honest opinion. So when the woman he considered a second mother said that her sister was being hardheaded and taking unnecessary risks with her health, Happy listened. In spite of all the current shit the Club was dealing with in Charming, Happy had wasted no time making the 3½-hour ride to come check on his vieja.

Now, as he watched his mother moving slowly about the room, a part of him was angry at her for looking so weak and frail, for not being the invincible superwoman she had been his entire life.

"Well, _are_ _you_ gonna stare at me all morning?" Amelia quipped, "I can assure you, I'm not getting any prettier."

Quelling the desire to jump down his mother's throat for her current predicament, a situation not of her own making, Happy decided to take another tack. "I'd rather you tell me how long Marley's been here."

"If I'm going to talk about that, I'm gonna need coffee, and lots of it," his mother replied and, turning slowly, headed for the kitchen. "Well, don't just sit there with your thumb up your ass, hijo," Amelia said easily. "Go take a shower while I get breakfast ready."

Rolling his eyes, Happy stood up and grabbed his saddlebag.

_Something tells me I'm going to need a hell of a lot more than food in my gut before I can tackle the subject of Marlowe._

* * *

Having showered and taken the time to shave the stubble on both his head and his face, Happy had made his way to the kitchen. Now comfortably stretched out in his favorite chair, he watched his mother chop red peppers and mushrooms for his favorite breakfast as she softly sang along with the Salsa music playing on a small radio on the kitchen counter.

Taking a sip of the strong, sweet coffee that she had prepared for him just the way he liked it, Happy contemplated the woman standing in front of him. As rough as her life had been ever since he could remember, Happy couldn't understand why it seemed his mother always got the shitty end of the fuckin' stick.

Along with her parents and little sister, Amelia Lopez had immigrated to the United States several years after the 1953 Cuban Revolution had begun, but before Fidel Castro had finally succeeded in ousting Cuba's President Fulgencio Batista in 1959. Back home, her father had been a doctor and her mother an academic who taught Philosophy at the University of Havana. In their new home in Miami, however, her father supported his family by washing dishes at the Fontainebleau Hotel while her mother cleaned the summer homes of wealthy out-of-towners.

Several months before Amelia turned 17, both her parents were killed when a tractor-trailer T-boned their Oldsmobile. Although his mother never complained, from what Ceci had told him, Happy knew that life for the newly-orphaned girls must have been difficult as they were passed along to a variety of relatives they had barely known to begin with.

Although English had not been their first language, both Amelia and Celia had gone on to succeed academically with his mother eventually getting a nursing degree and Celia becoming a teacher. By the time Amelia was 28, however, she was a widow living alone with a young son to raise. Happy always saw his mother as being a strong, forceful presence in his life, so her unexpected illness had knocked him on his ass. But soon, he was back on his feet, doing what needed to be done to make sure she got the best care money could buy.

Needless to say, after suffering the fear of losing his mother silently and after all the pain and difficulties she had experienced during her battle against cancer, to hear that his mother was playing fast and loose with her health pissed Happy off. Like a lot.

Now, as he sat at the kitchen table watching her puttering about making breakfast, he could see that his mother had aged significantly. Being in her late-sixties, that was to be expected but had been something Happy had not really wanted to acknowledge, especially now. Once again pushing thoughts of dealing with his mother's mortality to the wayside for now, Happy decided that it was time to tackle the other elephant in the room instead.

"So you wanna tell me why you didn't mention that Marley had come home the last time I called?" Happy asked gruffly.

"Probably because I figured your stubborn ass would give me grief about it if I did." Having sautéed the vegetables, Amelia added them to the egg mixture in the large casserole dish before placing it in the oven. She then lowered the heat under the pan containing thinly sliced chorizo and turned to face her son. "With Marley I know you think you've earned the right to vocalize your displeasure with her for daring to know her own mind, but don't you think that after ten years you should give that shit a rest?"

"That would make too much sense, Tía. But then again, maybe his little cave man brain is incapable of something like common sense," Marlowe replied as she sauntered into the kitchen and leveled Happy with an angry glare that made her gray eyes look like two hard, shiny marbles. "If that's the case, then it's technically not his fault."

Stopping about four feet from where Happy sat at the table, Marlowe folded her arms across her chest. Happy barely reacted to what he considered a slight annoyance and continued sipping his cup of coffee.

The not-so-subtle snub further incensed Marlowe, causing her lip to curl into a snarl. "Do you even realize how close you came to dying last night?"

"Not even close, little girl," Happy chuckled mirthlessly only because he knew it would piss her off. "I mean, there was little power behind _some_ of the blows you managed to land, but you obviously forgot everything I taught you while in the Army 'cause you couldn't hold onto your gun for shit." He leaned back in his chair to better watch Marlowe's reaction to his taunting.

"I was in the _Navy_, asshole, not the Army," Marlowe corrected through gritted teeth.

Happy shrugged his shoulders. "Even worse. The pansy-ass Navy. Do they even _have_ guns?"

"I wasn't the one with a high-powered shotgun aimed at my belly, was I?" Marlowe said sweetly as she pulled out a chair and straddled it. "I can understand if you forgot about that, though. After all, they say memory's the first thing to go when you start getting _old_. That or your noodle starts going limp," she continued as she reached for the pitcher of juice that Amelia had put on the table and poured herself a glass. "By the way, you hit like a fuckin' girl. Some O.J.?" she offered with a sweet smile to goad him on.

Almost rising to the bait, Happy paused to run his hand over his smooth chin. "I ain't _never_ hit like a girl in my fuckin' life," he retorted in a low growl. "I pulled my punches because I didn't want to kill a bitch."

Marlowe rolled her eyes and sniffed. "Yeah, like that could ever happen."

"I'm starting to wish I fuckin' had," Happy said angrily. "You know, I almost forgot what a mouthy little bitch you can be. Thanks for reminding me."

"Then, by all means, let me remind you some more," Marlowe retorted sarcastically. "You're just pissed because I'm not like one of your biker bitches, ready to sit up and eat your shit with a spoon and a smile. Unlike _them_, I know how to wipe my own ass and can make my own fuckin' decisions without having to ask YOU for permission."

"At least those bitches are smart enough to know when they have it good. Did it ever dawn on you that maybe if you did what you were told every once in a while you would have had an easier life?" Happy growled bitterly.

"That's all it boils down to, isn't it? You being in control? In your mind, I was nothing but a stray mutt you picked up off the street that should have licked your boots in gratitude and did everything it was told without question. I'm so sorry I disappointed you by thinking I had the right to do what I wanted with MY LIFE!" Marlowe bellowed.

Happy started beating his fist against his head. It was that or shoot her in the face with his fuckin' Glock and, to his mind, that was starting to sound like a good idea.

"Are you even fuckin' listening to yourself? Shit! I never thought it possible for a bitch not to listen even when she's the one doing the talking!" Happy groused. "You're just like your mother."

Marlowe stiffened, her eyes softening from angry to hurt. "After ten years of not speaking to me because I went against your wishes, and you're gonna bring my _mommy_ into this?" Her voice was low, but Amelia—who had resolved to let the two work their shit out on their own—could hear the anguish behind Marlowe's words and turned to face the pair sitting at the table. Marlowe crossed her arms, her mask of defiance firmly back in place. "Shit, I must have gotten my brains from my father because my mother was definitely a stupid bitch for sleeping with you for all those years."

"BASTA!" Amelia suddenly shouted as she slammed a hot casserole dish and a plate of Spanish sausage on the large trivet on the table. She followed up by slamming a large, warm plate in front of Marlowe and another in front of Happy. "Until you two can speak without being evil to each other, I want you to shut the hell up and eat what I put on this table before _I_ lose my shit."

Seeing his mother's angry face, Happy swallowed the bitter retort that was on the tip of his tongue. Without further comment, he dished himself up a large helping of the breakfast casserole and chorizo and started shoving the extremely hot food into his mouth. His favorite meal burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth and soured as soon as it hit his roiling stomach.

_I owe Ceci an ass-reaming for not warning me that Marley was here when she called._

Aside from the clinking of silverware on dishes, the kitchen was eerily silent as the trio sat and quietly ate their meal. Brooding, Marlowe did less eating and more pushing of the food around on her plate, her arm feeling sluggish. Unable to fall asleep easily to begin with, having faced-off with an intruder only to discover that it was Happy had not helped her insomnia at all. Instead, Marlowe had tossed and turned even more than usual as she thought about the man who had been both friend and brother to her for as long as she could remember.

Peeking through her thick eyelashes, Marlowe had to admit that Happy looked good despite the fact that he had a decade on him. He still kept himself fit and had moved with the speed and agility of a much younger man as they tussled about. The only real sign that he had aged at all were the gray hairs she had spotted in the stubble of his beard, which did nothing to detract from the fact that he was still as handsome as he ever was.

_Cocky bastard probably has all the bitches down at whatever charter he's with now on rotation and ready to go down on him at a moment's notice_, she thought with a little amusement to her surprise.

As a grown woman, she could definitely appreciate his rugged sexiness even though she still preferred her men a little more on the pretty side. Growing up, however, Marlowe had loved and had looked up to Happy, never even entertaining the thought of having a crush on him.

Marlowe had been a child when Happy had started coming around to hook up with her mother. At the time, even though at 29 she was older than Happy by five years, Shannon Guthrie had been a stunner, even more so when she wasn't boozing and doing drugs. According to her mother, drinking was just one of the hazards of her job down at Nasty Boots, a strip club a few miles outside of Bakersfield on I-99. The club catered mostly to the biker and trucker crowd and Shannon had made a halfway decent living stripping. That is, when she didn't spend her entire paycheck at the bar or shooting up.

Marlowe remembered the first time she met Happy. The fact that Shannon had the habit of bringing men home with her after work meant that Marlowe hadn't batted an eyelash when Happy had crawled out of her mother's bedroom and into the living room. She had been sitting on a dilapidated couch with mismatched cushions watching TV. Judging by the look on his face when he saw Marlowe, it had come as somewhat of a surprise to discover that the awesome lay he had enjoyed the night before had a kid.

Although she remembered being afraid of the tall man with a variety of scary tattoos littered all over his torso and arms, Marlowe's curiosity had gotten the better of her and she quickly struck up a conversation with him.

Even back then Happy hadn't been much of a talker, so it had been more like a one-sided conversation on her part, but at least he hadn't told her to shut the fuck up. His short and terse responses did nothing to deter the chatty little girl in desperate need of attention.

Over the months that followed, Happy had become a regular visitor to the house and through one of their conversations—that Happy would later label as "interrogations"—Marlowe soon discovered that he too lived in the neighborhood. He had mentioned his mother several times and only in passing, but with her keen eye for people, it didn't take Marlowe long to figure out who Amelia Lowman was when she spotted her on the street or at the market. With Happy's relationship with Shannon on and off and none too serious, it was two years before Marlowe was introduced to Happy's mom.

Their initial meeting had not been under the most pleasant of circumstances, so Marlowe tried not to think much about the events of that day other than to acknowledge that was the day she had met her guardian angel. Showing up at Amelia's doorstep in the middle of the night seemed to be a habit of hers as that was how she had first met the woman. Happy had pulled Marlowe from the hellhole that should have been a home and, with very little by way of explanation, had thrust her onto his mother. Without asking questions, Amelia's gut reaction had been to embrace the scared little girl and, before Marlowe knew what hit her, she had been scrubbed and bedded down in a comfortable and clean-smelling bed in Happy's home.

For whatever reason, Marlowe soon found herself forever connected to two complete strangers whom felt the need and the desire to look out for her and care for her.

_And that's something I will never, ever be able to repay._

* * *

Marlowe looked up as Happy finally shoved aside his empty plate and made eye contact with her. Although he was no longer seething with anger, Marlowe tensed her shoulders and braced herself for the continuation of their very loud discussion. She was fully energized by the food she had managed to eat and was ready for another round, but once again Amelia interfered.

"So why did my boy feel it was necessary to show up here in the middle of the night? You could have called if you just wanted to check on me." Amelia crossed her arms as she eyed him suspiciously. "Did Ceci put you up to stopping by?"

Happy tossed the used napkin onto his plate after wiping his mouth and eyed his mother. "I don't need Ceci telling me how to handle my shit," he replied gruffly. "She _did_ call, but I was already heading down here when she did."

"Damn busy body is always sticking her nose into my shit," Amelia complained.

"Somebody needs to, especially when you're too damn stubborn to accept help when you need it," Happy argued.

"Hijo, I don't know what Blabbermouth has been telling you, but I don't need any help," she insisted stubbornly. "I'm perfectly fine here on my own. Besides, you know I don't like strange people in my house or in my business."

Marlowe quirked an eyebrow as her head bounced back and forth between mother and son. She was obviously out of the loop about something.

"I don't want to talk about my issues right now." Amelia jabbed a finger into her son's chest. "Why don't you tell me why you decided that late last night was a good time to come home for a visit?"

_Ma's just too intuitive for my own fuckin' good!_

With so much crap hitting the Club sideways, it seemed that there was simply no time to recover from one shit storm before another one blew in. Combining that with the worry Happy felt over his mother's health and it didn't make his situation any easier. It only worsened it knowing that he was about to drop another load of stress on her shoulders and it pissed him off.

Between the Club's impending incarceration because of Clay's failed attempt at retaliation against Ethan Zobelle, the revelation of Gemma's rape at the hands of Zobelle's white hate crew, the sadistic workings of an ATF agent that had forced Gemma on the lam, and Half Sack's murder and the kidnapping of Jax's boy both by the Club's RIRA contact, the mother charter just couldn't catch a fuckin' break.

But Happy loved his family and his Club was his family. He was prepared to do whatever needed to be done to protect and defend it. That loyalty to his brotherhood was what had brought him back to Bakersfield. He owed it to the most important woman in his life to prepare her for what was coming and to insist that she return the favor by doing whatever would give him the peace of mind he needed while he was away handling his shit.

Now that his mother was staring him in the face, Happy knew that he had to give her the shit straight, no chaser. "Ma, I'm going out of town for a while. On Club business," he started.

Amelia shrugged her frail shoulders. "You're always on the go with them. That's nothing new and that's not what has you sitting at my kitchen table. What else is going on?"

Happy looked her in the eye. "When I finish what I need to do, I'm going back inside for a while."

_Shit Happy!_ Marlowe thought to herself. _What fuckin' lousy timing_!

"Let me guess—you got a bum rap, right?" Amelia deadpanned at her son's revelation.

"No," Happy shook his head. "They got me dead to rights this time. But if things work out the way they're supposed to, I'll only do short time, 14 months max."

"Aye Dios mio, Enrique!" Amelia lamented.

"Ma, there's no need to worry. I can handle my shit."

"If handling your shit means going back to prison, then yes. You are handling your shit extremely well, hijo," Amelia responded angrily. She knew the street was dangerous enough for her boy, but prison was far worse and Amelia knew she wouldn't be able to survive a broken heart if anything happened to her son. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and that seemed to calm her down enough to continue. "And if things don't work out the way they're supposed to? How much time then? And don't try to soften the blow for me, hijo. Just spit it out, okay?"

Happy sighed. "Fifteen," he admitted.

Amelia shook her head. _Might as well be a life sentence_, she thought sadly. That's exactly what fifteen years would be for her. "Shit, I'll be in a pine box before you get out."

"No you won't, Ma." Happy grabbed her hand and squeezed. "That's not gonna happen."

"Then your ass better make sure it doesn't." Amelia stood up. "Marley honey, please see to the kitchen. Suddenly I'm feeling very tired and I need to lie down."

Happy watched as his mother slowly made her way out of the kitchen and towards her bedroom. Waiting until he heard the door close firmly behind her, he then turned to Marlowe.

"We need to talk."

* * *

Sitting on one of the lawn chairs in the tiny backyard, Marlowe crossed her arms and eyed Happy who was similarly seated. With Amelia suddenly not feeling well, she hoped that Happy wasn't looking to restart their unfinished conversation. She knew she would probably be unable to rein in her temper and the last thing she wanted was to cause Amelia any more stress by having them at each other's throats again.

Apparently, Happy had the same thought, which was why he had pointed a thumb towards the kitchen's back door and had stomped outside without comment, clearly expecting her to follow him. Now as she sat waiting for him to give his excuses about his present set of circumstances, she was completely surprised when he sidestepped the issue.

"So when are you due back?"

Marlowe blinked once, then twice. "Back?" she replied stupidly. "Back _where_?"

"Back to your ship, base or wherever the fuck it is they put you Navy pansies on," Happy said with a little sneer in his tone.

_Count to ten, damn it. Breathe and count to ten before you take your knife out of your boot and stab him in the fuckin' eye!_

"I'm not going back," she said succinctly.

For a moment, the outlaw was nonplussed. "What does that mean, you ain't going back?"

Marlowe sighed. There was no way in hell she was getting into this shit with Happy. Not now, maybe not ever. The last thing she wanted to hear was a big "I fuckin' told you so." It had been hard enough sharing the gory details—the indignity of how it had ended for her and the fact that she was now on a shit load of medications to help her deal with it all—with Amelia.

_Just keep it vague and refuse to give up the deets. He hasn't spoken to me for ten long years, he certainly doesn't get the right to interrogate me now._

"I mean I quit." Again, for the second time in a row, Marlowe lied. "I was bored and needed a change of scenery, so I got out." As she saw the slight smirk start to creep onto his face, Marlowe threw up a hand. "If you don't want me to kill you and bury your body in Tía's flowerbed, you won't say shit to me right now," she warned. "I mean it, Hap."

_I think she really does_, Happy thought with some amusement.

"A'ight. I'll give you a pass. _For now_. But I ain't letting it slide forever."

With his unrelenting dark brown eyes trained on her, Marlowe knew that Happy meant what he said. But, hey, a reprieve was a reprieve and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the fuckin' mouth.

"Okay, so if my career's not what you called me out here to talk about, what's the shit, Hap?" She turned slightly in her chair to look him straight in the eye.

"It's about, Ma," he started, his earlier attitude towards her softening some. It was clear to Marlowe just how really worried he was. "She's not looking good."

Sitting forward, Marlowe put her elbows on her knees and ran one hand through her loose hair. "I know," Marlowe replied hesitantly and moistened her lips before she continued. "Hap, I'm so sorry I wasn't around like I should have been. I kinda got—caught up," she finished quietly. "I'm just not used to seeing her like this."

"Yeah, I know," Happy nodded. "She's a tough bitch, though."

"I wish I had been here for her . . . and you. Having to deal with it all on your own must have been tough."

"I handled it," he replied brusquely, "and so did she, for the most part. Shit got real when she ended up in that fuckin' hospice. I didn't think—" he paused and pressed his thumb and index fingers to his eyes.

"She made it out, Hap." Marlowe assured him with a hand on his denim-clad knee.

"Yeah, and now just as she gets out, I gotta go back inside. I can do the time, I ain't worried about that shit, but her stubborn ass refuses to have a live-in nurse take care of her," Happy explained. "Her doc released her under the condition that she have full-time care until she recoups her strength and her cancer goes into remission. But with that bad knee, she's always doing shit she ain't supposed to be doing. All it would take is one bad fall to set her recovery way back."

"And Ceci hasn't been around?" Marlowe asked. "I mean, I know she's still teaching, but I don't even think she's called the house since I've been back."

Happy nodded. "You're probably right. They've had several falling outs since all this shit started, but according to Ceci, Ma really blasted into her this time around for hiring a home attendant and sending her ass over here without warning."

Marlowe chuckled. "I'm sure that went over well."

"Judging from last night, apparently not," Happy grinned laconically. "You're lucky Ceci told me about the live-in caretaker because that's the only reason I went so easy on you last night. When you attacked my ass, I figured Ma had caved and let the woman stay."

"So it never occurred to you that you just might have been flinging your own mother around?" Marlowe chastised with half a smile.

"Shit no! I know what my own mother smells like, and it ain't at all like that fruity shit you poured all over yourself last night. I smelled you the minute you hit the hallway. I just figured it was some bitch who was at least making an effort to protect Ma and that it would be pretty shitty of me to pull my Glock out and shoot her."

"When was this? _I_ had the drop on _you _from the word go," she reminded him with a huge grin.

"Never mind all that shit." Happy waved away Marlowe's goading as inconsequential even though he flashed a grimace that sort of resembled a smile. "Bottom line, it's obvious that having to convince Ma to have somebody come in is no longer necessary," Happy's smile was almost evil, "now that you're back."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that since you're currently unemployed, you stay put right here with Ma until I get out of the joint. You know she'll only tolerate having family around," Happy pointed a finger at Marlowe, "and _you're_ her family."

The fact of the matter was that Marlowe had been keeping a close eye on Amelia for the last week. She had been keeping her doctor appointments and continued to take her medications as prescribed, but it was easy to see that the woman was far from 100% healthy.

"You're preaching to the choir, Hap. I wasn't planning on going anywhere for the time being, but what if Tía's not amenable to the idea of me sticking around for the next fourteen months? I can't force her to let me stay," Marlowe replied.

"I don't give a flying fuck what she wants. It's what _I_ want that matters, Marley. I need to know that she's going to have the care she needs and since I can't be here for her, I'm gonna need you to be," Happy said silkily. "Unless, of course, you don't love her as much as you claim."

"Fuck you! You know that's not true and using emotional blackmail, knowing how bad I feel about not being around before, is a real dick move," Marlowe charged. "I may not have been around then, but I'm here now and that's all that matters."

"Good, then it's settled. Your ass is staying put in Bakersfield until I get out," Happy smiled as he stood. "Now you better get your ass in that kitchen and clean it up. You know Ma won't tolerate dirty dishes and shit lying around all damn day."

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" Marlowe demanded as she stood up as well.

"I need another pack of smokes before I head back to Charming in a couple of hours," Happy replied.

"_What_? You're not even staying a whole day?" Marlowe asked, trying hard to mask her disappointment.

"I gotta head back. I need to get ready for a trip." Happy thought about all the shit he needed to do before pulling out for Belfast the following afternoon. "It can't be helped, little girl."

Pausing before heading over to his bike, Happy walked back and reached out to grab a surprised Marlowe by the back of the head. Landing a hard kiss on her forehead, he turned to head back to his ride and finally allowed himself to open up just a little to the bratty little kid that somehow he had managed to help his mother raise.

"Missed your skinny ass," he muttered before straddling his bike and pulling out of the driveway, his pipes roaring in the distance.

* * *

**Glossary**

**Mi bebecito:** my little baby.

**Vieja: **Old woman; old lady.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

**A/N: I really miss hearing from my readers, so I hope posting this chapter early will spur you to post a review. I would like to know how you guys are feeling about Marlowe and Happy and, finally, Jax makes his first appearance in this chapter. I don't usually like to post on Fridays, but I hope you will make my weekend a happy one with reviews on Chapters 3 and 4 if you have the time. Love, Harlee.**

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – March 2009**_

Stockton State Penitentiary was a sprawling institutional complex spread out over 2500 acres some 20 miles north of Stockton's city limits. Comprised of four cell blocks, the more than 3600 inmates that called the prison home were sequestered into groups based on the nature of their crimes and their potential for violence.

Minimum security inmates, those incarcerated for non-violent offenses, were housed in Cell Blocks A and C and were allowed to work within the secured perimeter of the prison. With the exception of protective custody inmates held in individual cells, these inmates were housed in large dormitories, their time on the inside considered the easiest by their more hardcore counterparts. With medium security inmates housed in Cell Block B, it was Cell Block D that housed California's most violent offenders, including those living on borrowed time as they waited out their appeals on Death Row.

With its large yard used for inmate recreation surrounded by the four cell blocks and several administrative buildings, Stockton Prison was an impenetrable fortress. Built in 1941, the prison boasted a reputation of being inescapable. Thanks to its four-foot thick concrete block walls and two-story high barbed wire fences, no inmate had ever managed to make an unauthorized exit. This was a fact that provided some comfort for the residents in the surrounding area who deemed the inmates as little more than animals; murderers, rapists and thieves being the worst of the lot.

Life inside the prison was a rigid set of regimented activities designed to remind an inmate that they had given up the right to exercise their free will once they crossed the threshold into the penitentiary. However, despite the armed guards that roamed the cell blocks ready to crack skulls if necessary, the reality was that the convicts were the ones in charge of how they lived their lives in prison. They existed in an alternate universe of their own creation where women didn't exist except in the contraband pages of Hustler magazine and where paper money had been replaced as the currency of choice by cartons of cigarettes.

In this environment, the pack mentality thrived and the only way for an inmate to survive was to align himself with one of the segregated groups that ran the prison and the yard. With a number of Hispanic, Black, White and Asian gangs populating Stockton, if an inmate didn't have affiliation with any of the gangs by ethnicity alone, then he needed the hook-up for protection or life on the inside could quickly become deadly.

For the six members of the Sons of Anarchy Redwood Original, that fact had been made crystal clear the day Jackson Teller almost died.

* * *

_**Wednesday, March 25, 2009**_

Almost two weeks in the prison infirmary and Jax still couldn't get himself into an upright position.

Moving slower than a man his age should and with a considerable amount of pain, Jax finally managed to approximate what from a distance might look like sitting up. He wasn't a pussy, but the searing pain in his punctured lung and gut made breathing almost impossible while trying to move. Taking short, shallow breaths, Jax allowed his eyes to wander around the small dank ward of the prison infirmary before he attempted another go at sitting upright.

_St. Thomas it sure as hell ain't_, he noted grimly, taking in the depressing gray paint on the walls and the small but high barred windows that kept the sun's rays from penetrating the gloomy room. The only plus that had come from having a machine breath for him when pneumonia had set in about a week after almost dying was being spared having to breath in the stale stank air of blood, piss and vomit, lightly masked by the stench of industrial-strength bleach.

The room's only other occupant was another inmate named Frank. Frank was 65 years old and had end-stage prostate cancer. Having served only four years of a 25-year sentence for killing his estranged wife by running her over several times with his car, Frank had been denied his request for a compassionate release. With no family willing or able to see to his round-the-clock care during his final days, Frank had recently slipped into a coma. Jax couldn't help but feel bad for the man. Instead of being surrounded by his loved ones, it was only a matter of time before Frank slipped away permanently and Jax would be the only one around to witness it.

The fact that he had come close to sharing a similar fate with Frank just twenty-six days into his stay in Stockton was not lost on Jax. The plastic i.d. band on his left wrist identified him as Inmate T33714, a constant reminder that he was nothing but a number within these walls. As such, all he could expect was to be treated like less than an animal if the fact that he had been kept shackled to the railing while on his death bed was anything to go by.

Jiggling the handcuffs on his left arm that kept him attached to the bed, Jax sighed. Sitting up would have been so much easier without them and with no one around to lend a hand, Jax resigned himself to staying only semi-upright. Leaning his head covered in blond fuzz against the metal bed frame, Jax tossed his pencil onto his lap in frustration and used his right hand to stroke his growing beard restlessly.

Jax had known that doing this stint in Stockton wasn't going to be easy. Short time, long time, it didn't matter. Any time in the joint never was. Separated from the world he knew in Charming, life on the inside always felt like he was living in suspended animation while his brothers and loved ones back home continued going on with their lives. As he almost bled out by the pay phones, Jax couldn't help but think that even though he would be mourned if he died, eventually life would go on without him. Tara and Abel had been at the forefront of his mind. Now that he finally had something truly worth dying for aside from the Club, Jax wasn't ready to die and let life go on without him.

When it came to doing what needed to be done, Jax may have seriously underestimated the results but the decision to turn the tables on the Club's enemies had been a pretty easy one to make. Standing in his mother's hospital room, Jax had watched the strongest woman he had ever known break down after being threatened by Special Agent June Stahl with life in prison without her family. Faced with fifteen years in a federal prison himself, the realization of all he would ultimately end up losing—his mother, his son and his Club—had spurred Jax into taking action fueled by the need for vengeance. He had been determined to find a way out of the bind they were in to save everyone he loved.

The plan to get his mother out of having to serve time and getting a reduced sentence for the Club while giving Agent Stahl and Jimmy O'Phelan a healthy dose of outlaw justice had come to Jax in a blur. The tricky part had been convincing the Club that any of it was at all possible, much less all of it. Clay had been the most vocal dissenter, believing that there was a real risk in Jax dangling himself on a hook in front of the unbelievably suspicious and savvy ATF agent. The crazy gash had proven herself to be off her rocker and was capable of anything, including murder, but she wasn't stupid.

It didn't matter what Jax promised in return, it was going to take the performance of a lifetime to convince Stahl that the Prince of Charming would turn rat on his Club in order to save his mother and son. A lot of shit had gone wrong before they had gone right. The Club had lost some SAMBEL brothers along the way, with Keith McGee's betrayal hitting them the hardest, but in the end, Jax and the Club had come out on top. Having succeeded in retrieving his son from Ireland, the Club had managed to wipe clean their roster of current enemies, including Hector Salazar. Unfortunately for Jax, his efforts to save his family had put SAMCRO on the radar of a new set of extremely powerful enemies. Enemies who, apparently, had a long reach.

The decision to double-cross Victor Putlova, head of the ROC's Oregon crew, had been made on the fly. The intention had never been to cheat Putlova, but he had forced their hand when he demanded $2 million for Jimmy O. They knew the Russians would come at them hard, but no one had anticipated that they'd come at them so fast, less than a month into the Club's 14-month stretch. With no way of knowing for sure how his brothers were doing, Jax could only hope that the fact that he was alone in the infirmary—aside from Frank—meant that they were alive and well.

In his mind's eye, Jax remembered the nervous anticipation he had felt while waiting his turn on line. At the time, Jax had convinced himself that he was just anxious to speak to Tara and hear her voice. He should have known better than to confuse that feeling in the pit of his stomach for anything other than his instincts warning him of the potential danger. Clay had made it clear that they were to stay close together at all times and watch each other's backs. At the very least, they were to always move around in pairs.

What he should have done was take Happy's advice about leaving the outside on the outside and just concentrate on staying alive. He had seen Jax brooding over a picture of his old lady and his son one too many times and had warned him that, if he wasn't careful, that kind of distraction could prove to be his downfall. Of course, Jax had taken offense, chalking up Happy's flippant attitude to the fact that he didn't have an old lady waiting on him to come home. In hindsight, Jax made the resolution to never disregard what his brother had to say ever again. He wasn't much of a talker but when he did open his mouth, Happy had proven time and again that he had the instincts and the smarts to back it up.

The more Jax thought about it, however, the more convinced he became that had it not happened that day at the pay phones, it was bound to happen anywhere. In the yard, on the chow line, in the showers or maybe even in his cell. Jax had no clue what the hell the inmate that had repeatedly plunged the homemade shiv into his gut had said in guttural Russian. For all he knew, it was something along the lines of "Eat shit and die, muthafucka", but his intention had been crystal clear.

Putlova had wanted him dead.

With his left lung punctured, had any of the knife wounds been an inch closer to another vital organ, dead he would have been and that fact plagued Jax's every waking moment. As he slowly recovered, all Jax had was time to think about his life and all the choices he had made that had brought him to this moment in time. The Life was all he knew, all he had ever wanted since he was barely out of diapers. Jax had always known that living the Life came at a high price. Only difference now was that he was no longer certain if that was a price he was willing to pay.

_Especially not when the price for my crimes is the blood of innocents_, Jax thought about Tara and the child she had lost during the Salazar kidnapping ordeal.

Now, Jax had to figure out where he was going from here. Getting a second chance at living, Jax wasn't so arrogant as to not learn from his past mistakes. The simple fact was that if he continued on this path he would only end up in prison for the rest of his life or dead and neither option worked for Jax. His rational mind, however, was telling him to first concentrate on recovering and then making it out of Stockton alive. There was still plenty of time between now and then and a lot of thinking to do before making a decision that could drastically alter the rest of his life.

With not much else to do, Jax had no choice but to reexamine his life, including his time spent in Belfast looking for Abel. His time there had opened his eyes in ways that deep down he wished it hadn't. He may have been young in the months before JT's death, but those final memories of his father were making a whole lot of sense to Jax in light of his conversations with Father Kellan Ashby.

Out of disappointment and frustration, Jax had declared that he was done listening to dead men. If he was honest with himself, what he had really been saying was that he wished he had never found JT's manuscript in the first place. The outlaw life had been much less complicated for Jax while he had been living with blinders on. But now, in the aftermath of McGee's betrayal and in spite of the fact that Jax still believed JT to be a weak man, his father had been right about the direction in which the Club was headed. No longer a club based on the love of brotherhood, it was now ruled by fear and greed and was quickly heading down a path of self-destruction.

As Jax had read his father's manuscript for the first time, he more than once had to suppress the voice in his head that asked why JT had wasted his time writing about all that had gone wrong with his vision instead of getting up off his ass and fixing it. As soon as those thoughts would pop into his head, Jax would remind himself that JT had run out of time. That he had died before he got the chance to right the wrongs. After learning about JT and Maureen Ashby, however, the real answer was now crystal clear.

JT had written the book with the intention that _someone else_ fix the Club. And in spite of dedicating the book to the hope that Jax never know this life of chaos, Jax now understood that even _that_ had been bullshit. What other life could he have possibly known if his own father had been unwilling or unable to make the changes himself? The sense of obligation and duty that Jax had felt as he read his father's words were real because that's exactly what JT had intended, that _Jax_ be the one to save it.

According to Kellan Ashby, JT had wanted nothing more than the chance to start over. Jax now believed that maybe that do-over meant starting a new life for himself in Ireland with Maureen and their daughter Trinity, not fixing what was broken back in Charming. His father, the man he had worshipped like a hero had been responsible for bringing Jax into this life of chaos and then had tried to back away, leaving behind a collection of words with the hope that Jax would be able to find his own way out of it.

And Jax knew that the greed that running guns had introduced into the brotherhood would ultimately end up killing him if he didn't figure a way out for the Club. He loved the MC, had come close to sacrificing his life for it, but even Jax knew that it would be arrogant of him to believe that one man was capable of refocusing the Club's vision away from the money the guns brought in.

But with the Club at a crossroads, Jax knew that more than their livelihood was at stake. _Brains Before Bullets_ still meant something to Jax and he knew his brothers well enough to know that they were still good men. He just needed to find a way to make them see once again that their brotherhood didn't have to be drenched in blood in order to work.

Picking up the pencil that lay in his lap again, Jax continued to write down his thoughts in the notebook he constantly kept at his side and hoped to one day share with his son. Journaling helped with his thought process. Seeing his thoughts down in simple black and white helped him keep what needed to be done in perspective and at the forefront of his mind.

Because Jax was determined to get out of Stockton alive in order to start _and_ finish what his old man hadn't had the balls to do himself.

Jackson Teller was going to save SAMCRO.

* * *

Lying on a narrow bed on top of a thin mattress, the stretched out figure lay silently composed as the long minutes of the days stretched out before him. Doing a stretch in the hole wasn't a big deal. Even though it had been more than eight years since his last stint in prison and he was no longer a young man, he had done time in solitary many a time before this.

Clarence Morrow slowly managed to turn his large frame onto his side in the pitch darkness. Flexing hands he could barely see in front of him, Clay grimaced as near-paralyzing pain shot through them. This time, however, it wasn't just the arthritis that was bothering him. He rubbed his rough hewn fingers across the scabs that had formed over his knuckles. These served as trophies earned by the 60-year old biker after Clay and his brothers had beat the ever-loving shit out of a Russian goon squad in the Chow Hall. It wasn't meant as retribution. That would come later, but the very spirited melee between SAMCRO and the agents of Victor Putlova had gone a long way in calming Clay's fury.

The anger and rage Clay had felt upon learning that his son had been brutally attacked had been nothing short of overwhelming. As much as the Sons' President was enraged by the audacity of the Russians for going after SAMCRO's VP, a lot of Clay's anger was directed at himself. The well-being of his men was his responsibility and Clay had known that landing in Stockton at this particular time would be dangerous, but he had hoped to secure protection for them once on the inside. And because he hadn't worked fast enough, and because the attack had come without warning, Jax had ended up paying the price.

When Tig and Happy had questioned him about retribution soon after the attack, Clay had told them to stand down until he had a chance to think rationally. All intentions of doing some rational thinking flew out of his fuckin' head, however, the moment a crew of Russian inmates taunted them as they sat having a meal only hours after the attack. Needless to say, Clay lost his shit and, before any of his brothers could stop him, he had plowed right in with his huge meat hooks and pounded on the nearest and biggest Russian.

With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Clay felt a fury like no other that allowed him to beat on the Russian prick with the strength of two men. His brothers had joined in and for a while nothing was heard over the yelling, grunting and cursing. In his peripheral vision, Clay had seen Bobby kick a much younger man in the balls; Happy had gleefully busted another in the face with his own skull before twisting his assailant's dick in a knot and heaving him across the room to crash into a table; Tig—his brother from another mother—had blood dripping from his mouth as he spat out a huge piece of some gulag's ear; and Juice had slammed his opponents face onto the hard metal surface of a table repeatedly until the man's nose erupted in a shower of blood.

It had been glorious, that is, until the guards had come storming in. Armed with riot gear, including batons, the bulls quickly subdued the battling inmates and Clay and his brothers found themselves tossed into the hole for two weeks. Not only had Clay managed to get himself some payback for what had been done to Jax, but by the same stroke he procured the Club temporary protection from further attacks by landing them in solitary confinement.

Judging by the rumbling in his stomach, it was clearly chow time and Clay wondered when the hell the guard was planning on stepping up with his very shitty food. He winced as the rectangular slot in the door suddenly opened and allowed a bright beam to shine in, making his light-deprived eyes water.

"It's about damn time," Clay muttered to himself. Sitting in an upright position, Clay was about to stand to grab the small box of food when he heard the locks of the door click open.

A tall bristly-haired guard stood in the open doorway, his baton at his side. "Times up, Morrow."

"What the fuck?" Clay muttered with a slight smirk. "It's been two weeks already?"

"Yep. Looks like you're sprung." Bill "Parce" Parson pulled the door wide open. "Your buddies are being cut loose today, too."

Clay rubbed his hands over his face thick with stubble as he stepped out of the hole. "I guess I lost track of time."

"Well, you are getting old, geezer. It's to be expected," Parce smiled as Clay eyed him irritably. "Got something for you though. Make wise use of it. Minutes are limited."

Reaching out Clay took the burner from the guard's grasp and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. "Thanks. I owe ya."

"I know you do," Parce replied easily as he led the man through the doors of the solitary confinement section and headed towards Cell Block D.

"Any word on how my boy's doing?" Clay asked.

"Still in the infirmary. He's alive, but won't be back in Gen Pop for a long while. He's still recovering from a bout of pneumonia and the Doc thinks he might be bleeding into his stomach. Could need surgery again." Entering the Cell Block, the guard navigated Clay through several long dark hallways of cells currently unoccupied before stopping in front of his. "But don't let that setback stall you in securing protection and quick. Word on the block is that there's a kill order out on him, so make your call now. Inmates won't be back in their cells for another thirty. For your sake, I hope you get what you need," Parce said grimly, "_and_ that includes my money."

"Don't worry," Clay assured the guard. "You'll be taken care of."

Walking inside, Clay sat down on his bunk, the bottom one. He had been counting on having to switch bunks with Jax. With his son still recovering, there was no way Jax was going to manage hauling his ass up there. Now it looked like it was going to be a while before he could lay eyes on his VP once again.

_Before that happens, I need to get down to business_, Clay thought grimly. Discreetly pulling the burner out, he sighed before gingerly punching in the numbers he needed. _Time to make a deal with the devil._

* * *

"_So how's your boy?" Marcus Alvarez asked as he blew several smoke rings._

"He's alive and I wanna keep him that way," Clay replied smoothly. _Whether that happens or not is gonna depend on you_, he thought with a little bitterness.

Considering the bloody history between the Sons and the Mayans, having to reach out to Alvarez for help was a big pill to swallow. It was a necessary evil, one that Clay needed to tolerate if he had any hope of obtaining protection for Jax and the rest of their brothers. Clay had initially reached out to Alvarez just a few days before they had ended up in solitary. The fact that Clay was using a burner provided by Alvarez himself meant he was interested in talking. It was a step in the right direction, but Clay couldn't help but wonder what it would end up costing him in the long run.

"_Y__ou know what they say, ese. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."_

"Well, just how hard am I gonna have to scratch there, Marcus?" Clay asked silkily.

"_I have an acquaintance south of the border that needs a shit load of hardware," Marcus replied, "and I would appreciate your help in finding a way to procure it for them."_

Raising an eyebrow, Clay leaned back against the wall of his bunk. "How much hardware we talkin'?"

"_All you can sell," Marcus replied. "And not just your usual inventory, either. My acquaintance has a __really__ big need for __really__ big hardware, that is, if you can get access to the kind of shit they're looking for."_

Clay was glad that Marcus couldn't see the shit-eating grin that had spread across his mug. Just before going inside, the Sons had brokered a deal with the RIRA for access to a higher quality of merch. The Club's coffers were threadbare, so the idea of being able to earn while in Stockton _and_ garner protection was just too good a deal to pass up. The only problem Clay could foresee was that it was too good a deal, as in _too good to be true_. He couldn't afford another misstep that would end up with the Sons paying a heavy penalty for it.

"I think we might be able to help them out. What exactly am I looking to get my hands on for your friends?"

"_I'll let you work those details out with them, but you helping them helps me and I will help you, Clay. I figure I can get my boys in the Double M to give you and your brothers some protection." _

Clay nodded to himself. The Double M, also known as La Eme or the Mexican Mafia, was one of the biggest crews in Stockton, second only to the Aryan Brotherhood. If the Sons could have them covering their backs, they should be able to keep an arm's length between them and several of the much smaller Russian gangs that were under Putlova's thumb.

_Which should give me enough time to broker some kind of a peace treaty with the ROC._

"How soon can you have our backs?"

"_In the spirit of cooperation, I'll put the word out today. And that protection will continue throughout your stay," Marcus responded._

"Thank you, Marcus," Clay replied with genuine gratitude. "And I look forward to doing business with you real soon."

"_We'll see, ese. We'll see. Expect someone to make contact in a couple of days," the Mayan President grinned. "Don't let me down."_

* * *

_**Friday, March 27, 2009**_

March in Stockton wasn't exactly feeling like springtime. Although the sun was shining bright, there was still a definite chill in the air. Clay massaged his hands, cursing the shitty meds he'd gotten from the infirmary that morning. He had told the asswipe that called himself a doctor that the pain meds he kept giving him barely took the edge off. Made him wonder just what kind of care Jax was getting in that hellhole. The only good thing to come from getting meds that might as well be sugar pills was that Clay had been able to get some word on how Jax was doing.

Despite the cold, the yard was crowded with inmates getting their daily exercise. Looking beyond the groups of men lifting weights, Clay made his way over to the table where the rest of his crew sat waiting for him. Today would be the first time that the five of them would be able to meet since getting out of solitary.

Happy was the first on his feet to welcome his brother. After hugging it out, he pulled away to eye the older man with an approving nod of his bald head.

_Looks good. Clay may be getting up there, but he sure can still handle his shit_, Happy thought proudly.

"Good to see you, brother," Happy growled.

"Likewise, brother." Clay looked him up and down. "Shit, Hap. What the fuck were you doing in solitary? Looks like you packed on some serious muscle."

The tall man's grin was more like a grimace. "Exercise doesn't just keep the body in shape. It keeps the mind sharp." Happy eyed the rest of his brothers. "I gotta be ready to protect my brothers in this shit hole at all times, especially with our chances of surviving without a color crew backing us up are slim to none."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Quit bragging about your physique and get the fuck outta the way," Tig said loudly as he shoved his way to Clay's side and slammed two heavy fists on his shoulders. "You doin' okay, old man?"

"Call me old man again, Tigger and you won't have to worry about eating the shitty food since you won't have no fuckin' teeth," Clay warned good-naturedly before returning the hug.

"Nice to see that you're still alive and kicking," Bobby chimed in as he slapped a hand on Clay's back. "Juicy Boy here was starting to think you'd croak in solitary."

"Shut up, asshole!" Juice complained as he bumped shoulders with Clay as his President ran a hand over his newly-grown in hair. "I was just concerned is all."

"Hey, at least that break from you served a purpose. Now I won't have to look at that crazy Mohawk of yours," Clay kidded. "Sit your asses down, brothers 'cause I got a lot of knowledge I need to drop on ya."

The group of men settled around the table with Clay sitting at its head. For all intents and purposes, they might have been sitting around the Redwood table back in Charming instead of the middle of a prison yard. Despite the chronic pain of his hands, Clay slammed a fist down on the metal table to signify the start of an official Club meeting.

"First, I was up at the infirmary earlier getting some meds for my mitts and was able to score some news on Jax," he said quietly.

"How's he doing?" Happy asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

"He's alive, but recuperating slowly. As a matter of fact, he needed another surgery yesterday to stop some internal bleeding."

"Shit!" Bobby cursed.

"That's fucked up, brother," Tig added. "What's the prognosis?"

"Good, for now, but this ain't St. Thomas we're dealing with," Clay replied. "The care here is mediocre at best but his doctor believes that, barring any other complications, he'll recover just fine. It just won't be for a while."

"What's 'a while'?" Juice asked.

"A month. Maybe more."

"Well, look on the bright side, brother," Bobby started. "Without us securing protection, Jax is just a dead man walking when he gets released into Gen Pop. With Putlova using his clout to get the Russians to strike against us, he's better off in the infirmary."

"For how long, though?" Happy questioned. "Who's to stay that Putlova's reach can't extend into the protective custody ward of the infirmary?"

"That's where I come in with the good news," Clay replied. "I was able to reach out to Alvarez and secured us protection from the Double M."

"What?!" Tig exclaimed in disbelief. "With all the bad blood between our crews, why would Brown suddenly agree to watch our backs? That shit with Zobelle—"

"Is water under the fuckin' bridge," Clay declared. "We live in a tit-for-tat world, brother, you know this. Why else would Marcus agree to help the Sons out?"

"He wants something in return," Happy supplied confidently. "And it ain't money."

Bobby was shaking his head. "Good because as Treasurer I can tell you unequivocally, we have none. That's what got us in this mess with the Russians in the first place."

"Yeah, I kinda got that part already," Clay said with a smirk.

"What then?" Juice asked. "It's not like we're in the best position to do much of anything for Alvarez right now."

"That's not quite true, Juicy," Clay replied as he wagged a finger at him. "What Marcus wants in return is a service we already provide, brothers. Not only will we have a chance to stay alive in here but once we get out, we'll gonna have a new customer with really deep pockets."

"Who?" Tig asked, still not convinced that Marcus Alvarez was at all trustworthy.

Succinctly and in a low tone of voice, Clay downloaded to his brothers the deal that Marcus was brokering on behalf of a business associate from south of the border. "I'm supposed to meet with someone from his organization in the next couple of days. In the meantime, Marcus has put the word out to the Double M that we're to be protected. That should go a long way in keeping the Russians off our collective ass."

"Shit, Clay. I'm all for making money and staying alive, but this just sounds a little too good to be true. What kind of deal are we talking here?" Bobby asked.

"Don't know for sure and I won't know until I sit down with their guy. Whatever it is, we may have to be prepared to take it, at least in the interim. It'll buy us some time to reach out to Otto, who can then reach out to Lenny. Lenny's still tight with the Russian Old Guard and maybe he can convince them to broker a peace treaty with Putlova."

"Nah, I ain't feeling that, man," Tig said in a harsh whisper. "Those assholes tried to kill Jax, a brother and an officer of this Club. That shit can't go unchecked no matter what kind of a deal we make."

"And I agree, Tigger," Clay's blue eyes resembled hard crystal marbles. "We'll get our pound of flesh for that shit, but not here, not now. Our goal is to survive what time we've got left in here and to do that we may have to make a couple of hard choices. Ultimately, the only thing that matters is protecting our own first. Our reputation can handle itself until we're back in a position where we can effectively deal with _everyone_ who took part in attacking Jax. Agreed?"

The patches around the table nodded soberly.

Clay was about to say something else, when Happy nudged him. "Looks like we're about to have some company," he growled as he nodded toward a group of inmates heading their way.

Clay grinned as he noted the distinctive tattoos identifying their gang affiliation. "Boys, looks like Alvarez has kept his word."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

**A/N: Really loved, loved, LOVED all the reviews! Thanks and keep 'em coming and I will try to post again real soon. Love, Harlee.**

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Friday, June 5, 2009**_

Sitting on his bunk, Happy flipped through the pages of the mail he had finally received from the only two women in his life.

Although the Unholy One had already served nearly four months of his sentence, he had made it a point of not calling Bakersfield. Adhering to the old adage of "no news is good news", he figured it was the best way to keep his mother from not worrying. It didn't help, however, that by not calling, Happy himself had no idea what the fuck was going on back home or with his mother's health. And if the lag time between letters was anything to go by, it seemed that neither woman was in a hot rush to reach out to him, each taking their sweet damn time in writing and cluing his ass in on what was going on.

_Pretty damn selfish if you ask me_, Happy had thought quite often during his incarceration, refusing to acknowledge that in order for communication to be effective it had to work both ways.

So it had taken him by surprise to return to his cell after chow and finding two envelopes carelessly tossed on his bunk—one in a delicate pink stationary and the other in a plain white envelope. With many decades of practice keeping his emotions in check, his expressionless face was so stoic as he picked up his letters that no one could have spotted the relief in his almost-black eyes.

"Hey," Juice chattered excitedly as he entered the cell. "You got mail. Cool. Who from?"

Looking up from the envelopes in his hand, Happy scowled at his young brother. "First off, none of your goddamn business," he growled. "Second, shut the fuck up and let me read in peace or I'm gonna end up adding another ten years to my sentence for slitting your damn throat."

"Okay," Juice said, putting his hands up defensively. "No need for you to lose your shit," he said as he hauled himself up to the top bunk. "Just thought you might want to share, is all."

"This ain't no damn circle jerk, asshole," Happy muttered as he ripped open the first of his mail, recognizing his mother's neat cursive handwriting on sight. "And stop pestering me or I'm gonna slap a dress on your ass and bend you over. Keep nagging me like a bitch and I'm gonna have to fuck you like one."

_Shit, Tig's right. The kid is just too damn talky. _

Happy read and reread the letter again before tossing it to the side.

Wishing her son well, Amelia had spent the bulk of the letter discussing what could only be termed as nonessential bullshit. Sharing nothing more than the mundane highlights of her day like Happy actually gave a shit that Mrs. Ortiz from down the block had finally divorced her cheating husband of 35 years. Almost three pages of nothing, not a damn word about herself or the state of her health and absolutely nothing about Marlowe, except to complain about how skinny the young woman was.

_When did the fuckin' roles get reversed? Juice talks too damn much and Ma not enough_, Happy thought as he ripped into the second letter, hoping to score more details from Marlowe.

And got more than he bargained for.

Considering the fact that they hadn't spoken in nearly ten years, Happy had expected to wade through a lot of bullshit to get to the heart of the matter. He remembered plenty of times in the past, especially when she was a teenager, when trying to get information out of Marlowe was nearly impossible. He'd have to resort to threats of beating her ass in order to get the Intel he was after, whether it was school-related or getting the details on the latest little punk-ass boy chasing after her. Happy was glad to see, however, that the military had turned Marlowe into the kind of woman that got straight to the point. Her letter was brief but unlike Ma's, was packed with the information he needed to know.

"_Since this is your second—or maybe third—time in the joint, I guess I don't have to warn you about not dropping the soap. Then again, 14 months without 'tang might tempt a man to drop the soap once or twice. Forget I said anything. Who am I to judge, right? Anyway, since I haven't heard shit from you since you left and since my letters have not been returned, I'm going to assume that you're still alive and kicking and have probably been in solitary at least once. Maybe twice."_

_Smart-mouthed bitch, _Happy grinned. He wasn't grinning, however, by the time he was done reading Marlowe's letter.

"_I'm not going to jerk you around, Hap. Tía could be doing better. She's put on a little weight but according to the doctor, she's still about 25 pounds underweight for a woman of her height. She says her current round of meds have screwed with her appetite and has threatened to stop taking them if I or the doctor keep 'nagging' her to eat. Don't worry, though, because I won't let that happen._

"_With her knee worsening, she's having a hard time getting around, but refuses to take shit easy. Trying to keep her off ladders and shit has become a daily occurrence since she's determined to finish spring cleaning. Between keeping her clean-freak cranky-ass in check and dealing with both Tía and Ceci, I'm going to lose my damn mind. At least the Navy gave me combat pay. The only thing I'm gonna come away with after playing referee for the next ten months is a drinking problem._

"_The doctor will be running some tests soon that will determine if the cancer's finally in remission. If the fucker's back, she'll have to start an aggressive chemo schedule, which Tía's already refusing to agree to because she doesn't want to lose her hair. _

"_I'm telling you this shit not because I know if I didn't you'd break out of Stockton and come to Bakersfield just to put a foot up my ass, but because deep down Tía knows that she has this shit beat. She still has some bumps left to overcome in the road ahead, but I know she's got this beat too. Trust me, I wouldn't daydream about choking the shit out of her if I didn't believe that was true. So try not to worry or I should say, try not to worry __too__ much. Tía will be here when you get out. I promise." _

Finally folding the thin sheet of paper and shoving it back into its envelope, Happy folded both letters and stuffed them in the back pocket of the gray denim prison pants. Intertwining his fingers behind his gleaming head, Happy lay on his bunk and stared sightlessly at the underside of Juice's bunk.

Reading Marley's letter had set Happy's mind somewhat at ease. Peeling away the layers of her snarkiness and self-deprecating humor, Happy knew he had made the right decision in getting her to stay with his mother. All he could do now was sit and wait for the news that Amelia's cancer had gone into remission because for Happy there was no other option. As an outlaw biker, life and death were practically interchangeable. Taking a life didn't affect him anymore than the prospect of losing his own did.

All bets were off, however, where his mother was concerned. Losing the woman who had given him life was not something he was prepared for.

_So for Marlowe's sake, she better keep Ma alive. Otherwise I might lose my shit and take it out on her. _

Because living without Amelia Lowman in his life wouldn't be living at all.

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Tuesday, June 9, 2009**_

Slamming his muscled chest into his height-challenged opponent, Happy's grin was almost maniacal as the 130-pound man went flying through the air and landed on his ass. Having appropriated the ball from him in the process, Happy barely heard the violent cursing shouted at him by the man's teammates as they tried to body slam him in order to regain control of the basketball.

The extra muscle that Happy had managed to pack on during and after his solitary confinement held him in good stead. It certainly made plowing through his opponents easy enough. Spotting an opening, Happy tossed the ball to Tig and pumped his fist in celebration as the SAA easily caught the ball and, taking a running leap, sunk a three-pointed shot.

"And who said white men can't jump?" Happy jeered at one of his opponents, before bro-hugging Tig. Hearing the sore loser complain about Happy's cheap shot, he turned around and suddenly slammed a fist into the man's face, dropping the thug like a sack of wet laundry.

_Just cuz these fuckers are watching our backs don't mean I have to take their shit._

Happy and Tig had been playing five-on-two with the Double M crew for over an hour. More like a street brawl than a friendly game of basketball, fists, vicious elbows to the gut, and attempted kicks to the balls were the order of the day as the Sons beat Mexican Mafia ass like they were their bitches.

As a teenager hanging out on the streets of Bakersfield, pick-up basketball games had been one of Happy's favorite pastimes. He loved playing the game, but the last time he could remember picking up a ball had been before leaving Charming for Tacoma so many years ago. Over the last couple of months in Stockton, however, Happy had regained his skills in handling the rock. It gave his smug arrogance a boost to realize that even though he was almost 43 years old, he could still kick ass twenty years younger than him.

Unlike their opponents, it hadn't come as a surprise to Happy that Tig had game and some pretty solid moves backing him up. When he had first joined the mother charter, Happy, Tig and Kozik had regularly spent their down time playing ball on the lot in the area designated as a "court" by the lone hoop that hung outside the overhang near the boxing ring. Back then, the three of them had been as close as brothers could get and would team up to hustle other members or Prospects out of their hard-earned money. Looking back, his early days with SAMCRO had been the best of Happy's life.

Happy, Tig and Kozik had been dubbed the "Wolf Pack" by JT. Fiercely loyal to the Club and not afraid to shed blood for the brotherhood, they were young and wild. When not working their legit jobs as mechanics or their non-legit one running guns, the Wolf Pack enjoyed the privileges that came with the patch. Not only did they have their pick of the croweater litter, but they got to haze the Prospects mercilessly. Whenever the chance presented itself, they would also bust the teenaged balls of the founding members' sons, Jax and Opie, toughening them up for when it was their turn to prospect for the Club.

It all came to an end, however, after the "Missy Incident of 2001". The death of Tig's dog had caused an irreparable rift between him and Kozik. At that point, with Tig already serving as SAA, Clay figured it was best for all concerned if Kozik transferred to the then mid-sized Tacoma charter. Their constant bickering and fisticuffs was having a wide-range negative effect on the entire charter and quite frankly, Clay couldn't stomach the bullshit anymore. A little bored with the Mayberry-like atmosphere in Charming, Happy decided to make the jump as well.

With Tig and Happy locked up, Kozik had returned to Charming to help out and had patched into the mother charter. Tig, of course, considered it a punk move on Kozik's part, but the Club needed voting bodies at the table while most of SAMCRO cooled their heels in Stockton. Whether the SAA was willing to cop to it or not, it was just a matter of time before the Wolf Pack was once again reunited. Happy and Tig were already kicking serious ass on the court, going up against and beating several prison crews. As their rep grew so did the entertainment value as betting on pick-up games surged. The Brothers Grim had done SAMCRO proud as, with every win, they managed to rack up a fair supply of cigarettes, as well as contraband such as cigars for Clay and weed.

Hearing his name, Happy turned to see Juice waving him over as he sat on a bench next to Bobby. Standing his ground with a "don't-fuck-with-me" look on his face, Happy watched as the younger man was forced to get up off his ass and jog over to him if what he wanted was to talk to Happy. Although he had never said it to Juice himself, Happy was glad to see that their time in Stockton was changing him for the better. Not only had he burned off some excess weight and built up muscle, but Juice was starting to toughen up some. Known as the Club idiot, Happy went out of his way to give Juice plenty of shit throughout the years. As an older, more experienced patch, Happy felt it was his obligation to help Juice become a seasoned outlaw. In a way, he was glad they had ended up in the joint because experience itself was the greatest teaching tool. Intel Officer or not, now was the time for Juice to prove what he was made of and so far, Happy was impressed.

"What the fuck you want?" Happy growled. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of a game?"

"C'mon, Hap, I want in. 'Sides, Bobby needs to fill you in on some shit," Juice replied, his light brown eyes sparkling with mischief as he watched the Double M Five bum rush Tig. "The old white dude looks like he could use some help."

"Hey!" Happy slapped a rough hand on the back of Juice's head. "Show some respect for your brother, asshole. We're winning this game. You fuck it up and I'm coming after your ass. Now, go help him out."

"Yes, sir," Juice saluted as he rolled his eyes. With the eagerness of a young puppy, Juice scrambled onto the court and entered the game.

Sweat was gleaming off of Happy's bald head and muscled arms as he sauntered towards the benches and Bobby. He made an imposing figure as he walked through the crowd of inmates that had gathered to watch the game. After nearly ten straight days of rain, it was the first time since spring started that it actually seemed like spring and the yard was packed. Using the bottom edge of his white wife-beater to mop his face, Happy sat down next to the shaggy-haired, potbellied patch who was not only the Club's Treasurer, but its father confessor as well.

"What's up, brother?"

"Just wanted to give you a head's up," Bobby started after taking a drag on his cigarette. "Clay's having another sit down with the Mexican OG. They're close to finalizing the details on the deal." Bobby handed Happy a cigarette and lit it for him.

Taking a deep drag, Happy exhaled. "So what's your take on this deal brokered through Alvarez? Think it's legit?"

"I'm sure it is," Bobby replied quickly, but then shrugged. "Truth is, I'm torn, brother. The way Clay's been talking, part of me wants to believe that this is just what the Club needs to get back on its feet. But the nagging yenta in my head—who sounds a lot like my ex-wife Precious, by the way—keeps telling me if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I mean, this ain't gonna be like dealing with the Niners or a half-dozen other crews we've done business with over the years. We're talking about a fuckin' _Mexican Cartel_."

"And that makes you nervous," Happy said as he looked into the older man's eyes. It wasn't a question, but neither was it said in judgment of Bobby. Happy knew his brothers and cowards they were not. That being said, however, neither were they looking to fast-track their exit from this mortal existence.

"Yeah, it does," Bobby nodded solemnly. "They don't call cartels the Mexican mob for nothing. Once you get in bed with the Cartel, there's usually only one way out."

"Dead," Happy provided, even though it could have gone unspoken.

"But not before they fuck up your life by going after everyone you love," Bobby stated. "On the plus side," he continued sarcastically, "I hear the money's pretty fuckin' awesome."

Happy smirked, "I don't know about you, brother, but I can certainly get down with that shit."

His mother's illness had put a sizeable dent in the money Happy had been earning with the Club. Her health insurance covered just so much with the patient expected to pick up the slack. If Happy had not stepped in, Amelia would have given up on her treatments after she had gone through her savings.

There was no question in Happy's mind that Clay had opened the lines of communication that were making a deal with the Galindo Cartel possible for the sake of their safety while in Stockton. In spite of the dangers involved, Happy was looking forward to making money hand over fist again. In his mind, doing business with the Galindo Cartel was only for the short term, but what Bobby had said was true. Once you were in, you were in for life. Happy could take care of himself and, with or without his brothers for back up, there wasn't a man alive that struck fear in his heart. The thought of putting anyone associated with SAMCRO or its members in the Cartel's cross-hairs, however, wasn't something he could take lightly.

Happy grimaced as he thought of his mother. Since his incarceration, the outlaw biker had tried to keep thoughts of his mother in the rearview. Life on the inside was intense enough without having to worry about life on the outside. In order for Happy and his brothers to survive, they needed to stay focused. One of his brothers had already suffered the consequences of a decision made with the well-being of a family member in mind. Happy worrying about his mother and her condition wasn't going to change shit, but having a steady cash flow to make things easier for her when he got out would. For whatever fucking reason she had for coming back home after ten years, having Marlowe stick around to look after his Ma had made an otherwise difficult time that much easier to handle.

Before his mind could jump and stick on the subject of Marlowe, just another basket of shit he didn't want to delve into right now, Happy turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

"Money ain't jack shit without your life and right now our lives don't belong to us, brother," Bobby started. "Even though the cons outweigh the pros if we go through with this deal, I don't see us making it out of this hole without protection."

Happy shook his head. "There is no 'if', Bobby. We need a majority vote to make this shit happen. I gotta wonder where Jax will land on this once Clay fills him in. Any word on how he's doing?"

Bobby dropped the stub of his cigarette and ground it out with the tip of his prison-issued navy canvas slip-on. "Must be doing better. Parce told Clay that Jax may get out of the infirmary by the end of this week."

"Those Russian fuckers gotta pay for what they did to him," Happy ground out.

"They will, Hap, but you heard Clay as clear as I did," Bobby chided. "Retaliation's gonna have to wait, especially since Lenny finally reached out to Putlova. We're just waiting on a reaction to our peace offering."

"Peace offering," Happy growled, his lip curling in disgust. "The Russians nearly gut our VP and what do we do? We turn around and offer to make Putlova a rich man. That shit ain't right."

"And it ain't permanent either," Bobby replied, clapping a hand on his brother's back. "Putlova's gonna get his for what he did to Jax and the beauty of it all is that he won't see it coming. All we gotta do is sit tight and wait shit out for a minute."

Happy nodded but he wasn't nearly as optimistic as his brother Bobby Elvis. The Russian prick had gone through some serious trouble to put Jax Teller in a pine box and Happy wasn't at all interested in letting that shit go unanswered. Jax was his VP, his brother and his friend and Happy felt he owed a personal debt to the Teller family. It had been John Teller who had seen something in the young thug newly-arrived in Chino and completely out of his element. JT had taken that angry young man under his wing and provided Enrique Lowman with protection at a time when he felt the most vulnerable, never asking for anything in return.

Arrested and charged with the attempted murder of what later turned out to be a Skinhead, the news of Enrique's arrival in Chino spread like wildfire among the Aryan Brotherhood who immediately targeted him for death. He owed his life to the two inmates, both serving a 15-month stretch for possession of illegal firearms, who had come to his aid—best friends John Teller and Clay Morrow. To this day, Happy was never really sure what JT had seen in him. At 24, Happy was a mass of brooding anger and trusted no one. In spite of his surliness, JT had extended his hand to Happy and offered him his friendship. By the time Happy was acquitted of all charges five months later, the two men had formed a bond over their love of Harleys and their mutual distrust and disdain for those in positions of authority.

Happy had walked out of Chino with an offer from JT for a legit job working at his garage in Charming. Showing up a month after his release not quite trusting that the offer had been sincere, Happy was surprised when he introduced himself to Piney Winston, a gruff, mean son of a bitch who quickly asked, "What the fuck took you so long?" Shoving a T-M work shirt at him, the old man continued, "We've been waiting on you, asshole! Now get to work!" The rest, as some would say, was history.

It was only after arriving in Charming that Happy learned that JT and Clay weren't just Harley enthusiasts, but officers of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original. Soon after he and Clay had returned from Chino, JT offered to sponsor Happy and even though he suffered many humiliations and indignities at the hands of Club members, it was during his time as a Prospect that Happy learned for the first time what it felt like to belong somewhere. After he patched in, his new band of brothers sealed his bond to them when they helped Happy track down his mother's would-be rapist so he could finish the task that had landed him in Chino in the first place. As a result, Happy earned his first smiley face tattoo.

Because of his deep level of commitment to the Club and the man that had been such a force in his life, Happy felt an obligation to avenge what had been done to JT's son. They shared a patch for over ten years now and in that time Happy had come to know and respect the man Jax Teller had become. Despite his youth and pussy-chasing ways, it was clear to Happy that Jax was a force to be reckoned with, just like his father. Not only did he have an unconditional and fierce love for the Club, but Jax had more than his fair share of brains and the brawn to handle his shit.

Now that Jax would soon rejoin their group, Happy was more determined than ever to protect his family and his brotherhood.

No matter what the cost.

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Friday, June 12, 2009**_

"It's the best play, son," Clay said soberly as he looked Jax in the eye. "You know I'm right."

The two men were sitting side-by-side on the bottom bunk in their cell. It was time for lights out on the cell block but in spite of the dim darkness, the inmates were as usual bullshitting and carrying on, deaf to several warnings issued by the guards. It was still noisy enough that Clay and Jax could have a conversation and not be overheard.

"I know you are, Clay. I just hope you realize the risks involved and the many ways shit could go wrong, that's all," Jax replied quietly.

In the darkness, the SAMCRO President's eyes widened. Had he not been sitting down, he prolly would have fallen on his ass upon hearing his VP's statement. Having spent the last couple of months hammering out the details of a deal with the Cartel, Clay had been sure that despite his hard work, Jax would have been dead set against it.

"I have to admit," Clay started, "I'm surprised you're on board with this. After all, this is definitely big league shit, a whole different ball game for the Club."

_No one is as surprised as I am right now_, Jax thought grimly. _But in order to put change in motion, the Club's gonna need to bank as much as possible._

Having spent over three months in the prison infirmary had given Jax nothing but time to come up with a feasible plan. Getting a breather from possible reprisals by the ROC because of Clay's deal with Alvarez for protection had been what he needed to concentrate on his plans going forward.

Although Alvarez had come through rather quickly on his end of the deal, Clay had been forced to move forward on securing a peace treaty with Victor Putlova without Jax's input. Even with protection from the Double M, the Sons still felt the need to look over their shoulders as long as they were in Stockton.

Putlova played hardball with Clay, insisting on a peace treaty under his terms. Hearing that the Club had voted on letting that the lowlife motherfucker make off with 80% of the RIRA stock until the Sons got out of prison had been a real pisser. It would mean that that the Sons would only recoup 20% of the stock, meaning it would take SAMCRO a long time to amass the funds they needed for their future.

A future where the MC was no longer outlaw.

In spite of the risks involved, learning how the new deal with the Galindo Cartel was going to line their pockets with cash had been the news Jax had needed to hear. The more risk involved, the greater the return and as far as he was concerned, Jax was ready to support the devil himself if it meant that at the end of the day he would be able to provide for his family legitimately in Charming and without worrying about dying in prison some day.

Even in the darkness Jax could see how surprised his stepfather was to hear he would back him in this new venture. It had taken a life-altering experience like almost dying to make Jax realize that their constant butting of heads over the last few years had paved a direct path for them into Stockton. Jax still believed that there were times when Clay had made the wrong call, especially in the case of Donna's unnecessary death. In hindsight, however, Jax knew that Clay loved the Club and his brothers and had only done what he had thought was best at the time.

Besides, Jax couldn't deny that he loved the old bastard. The fact was that Clay had been as much a part of his life as his own father since he could remember. JT's best friend and VP had taken him under his wing early on, especially when it seemed that JT was practically living in Ireland and most certainly after Thomas' death. Nevertheless, after John Teller died, it hadn't been an easy pill to swallow having Clay move in on his mother. Jax's rebelliousness back then as a teenager was proof of his resentment towards SAMCRO's new President and his new stepfather. Clay, however, never wavered in the love he had for his new family. Instead of treating Jax like an inconvenience, he took to raising him as his own, grooming him to be next in line for the gavel.

Turning to Clay in the darkness, Jax cleared his throat. "I'm sure we can handle doing business with the Cartel. SAMCRO trusts your judgment and in spite of everything that's gone down between us, so do I. We'll vote this deal through and make it out of here in another ten months. _Then_ we can deal with Putlova."

"You can best believe that, son." Clay clapped a beefy hand on Jax's shoulder. "Shit's gonna get handled. I promise."

* * *

_There ain't jack shit you can do about it now, so you might as well stop worrying about it._

Lying on the top bunk, Clay found that he was unable to sleep at all. The cell block had finally quieted down and all he could hear were the sounds of the other inmates snoring or jerking off.

Misrepresenting the truth concerning the full scope of the deal with the Cartel had been a necessary evil. There had been no wiggle room to negotiate and ultimately no way Clay could have said no to trafficking drugs from the Cartel to the Mayans for cutting and distribution. It was an all or nothing deal and Clay had no choice. It had to be all.

And not just for their protection in Stockton, but for the future of the Club itself.

The reality of the situation was that Clay was getting old. He was still a powerful and healthy son of a bitch and could still ride, but for how long? His hands were going to force him to give up the gavel sooner rather than later and, after over 40 years of living the outlaw life, he had nothing to show for it.

_I can't leave the Life empty-handed._

Hospital fees, legal fees, bad deals—you name it—had left the Morrow family coffers bare. With all the recent troubles, it seemed that the faster the gun money came in, the quicker it left the palm of his beefy hand. There was nothing by way of a retirement fund for himself and Gemma. All he had was his part of the garage and the house. Both were fully paid for, but that was it.

Right now the garage was the Club's only legit and thriving business thanks to Clay's management skills and his expertise in the field of auto mechanics. But as his hands continued to deteriorate, there was no way he would be able to actively work on cars. Besides, while the garage had proven to be a good source of income during the lean years, it still couldn't compare to the money he earned by running guns. His double-damned arthritic mitts were going to force him to step down from running the Club soon, and his days of earning big would be over.

That was why this deal with the Cartel had proven to be a blessing in disguise. In a year, two tops, Clay would be able to clear enough to keep him and Gemma in comfort for the rest of their lives. He had made too many sacrifices for the Club to step away from a deal that could—in one fell swoop—give him everything he needed to live out the rest of his life in comfort. That's why now more than ever Clay needed Jax on board for this initial vote. The boy was smart and a born leader. The chances were greater that the Club would follow Jax's lead on the matter, especially taking into consideration the recent number of bad calls Clay had made on behalf of the Club. Had he listened to his VP, he and his brothers wouldn't have to endure their current lackluster lodging accommodations, a point that he would never publicly admit to.

The fact remained, however, that the Cartel money they could potentially haul in had been a side benefit. The only reason Clay had reached out to Alvarez in the first place was to protect Jackson. The boy had gone through enough, too much, in fact. Clay clenched his painful fists into angry knots as he considered just how close to death Jax had been. That loss would not have just devastated his old lady but Clay as well. As much as Clay hated the thought of relinquishing his seat at the head of the table, he had spent too many years grooming Jax, training him to carry on the legacy of the Club only for him to die even before he could take up the gavel.

Resting his head on the meager pillow, Clay closed his eyes. _What's done is done, for now_, he thought, figuring he would deal with the repercussions of the drug deal on the outside. _What's the worst that can happen_?


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the Two Sons Universe.**

**A/N: Okay, here you go! Now PLEASE send me some more love. Harlee.**

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Friday, August 21, 2009**_

_I never thought I'd find myself sitting in this chair_, Opie Winston thought wryly as he looked around the table at his brothers, the gavel lying next to his right hand.

The vibe around the lot and the Clubhouse were definitely different since the departure of several key SAMCRO members. He missed them all, but Opie couldn't deny that on some level he was enjoying the tranquility of the moment.

A time for peace and clarity had been a long time coming for the mother charter after a year of non-stop violence and bloodletting.

_And tears_.

In examining his life, Opie couldn't remember wanting anything more than being a member of his father's MC, a Club he had grown up loving.

But as much joy as he got out of being a part of a brotherhood of bikers over the years, it had also been responsible for causing him much pain. Opie had made his sacrifices for the Club, had served a stretch of time that had nearly destroyed his marriage and family. He had survived broken bones and gunshot wounds and had lost a number of brothers along the way, but nothing had ever shaken his allegiance to the Club like the death of his wife.

Thanks to his best friend Jax and his expertly plotted plan to vanquish all enemies of SAMCRO, Opie had been able to extract his pound of flesh from the one responsible for Donna's death: Special Agent June Stahl. But if he had hoped to achieve a measure of closure by emptying a clip into the back of the Agent's head, Opie quickly learned that he would be sorely disappointed.

Stahl may have been the mastermind behind the plot to set him up as a rat, but it was his brothers—Clay and Tig—that had taken the bait dangled before them. Together they conspired and made a decision that ultimately cost Donna her life and had forced Opie to question his loyalty to the Club. Jax's insistence that he read John Teller's manuscript had gone a long way in helping Opie decide to stick by the Club. Knowing that one day the Club that had gone so wayward off course would be in their hands gave him enough of a reason to make staying worthwhile. Once again, his brother Jax had gifted him with the will to go on.

Earlier in the year, however, it seemed unlikely that they would ever get the chance to run the Club together. The attack commissioned by Putlova on Jax had almost put an end to their boyhood dream and had sent shock waves through those brothers remaining at the table. Knowing that Jax was now on the mend, Opie held fast to his determination to keep the Club solvent and have a plan for retaliation ready to set in motion on the day his brothers were released from Stockton.

With much to cover in order to make that happen, Opie slammed the gavel and looked around the table at his brothers. The table seemed strangely empty as he looked at Chibs sitting on his right, Kozik on his left and his ornery father, who had stubbornly settled himself in his chair at the opposite end of the table.

"So," Opie drawled, "are we all in agreement to patch Miles in?"

Chibs leaned back in his chair as he lit a cigarette. "I'm thinkin' dere's no question tha' we hav' tae, lad. He's proved himself and we canna wait for 'im to complete a full year as a Prospect. We need bodies and we need dem yesterday."

"Maybe," Piney started, his voice gruff. Wheezing slightly, he reached to turn the notch up on his portable oxygen tank. "But him fuckin' shit up because he wasn't ready, that would be the bigger problem."

"What do you think, Koz?" Opie eyed the blond patch.

Having only recently patched in himself, Kozik took a moment to weigh his words carefully before speaking. Knowing that he was bound to catch enough shit from Tig for taking the backdoor into SAMCRO while he was in Stockton, Kozik wanted to make sure his decision was based solely on Miles' character, not the need for more men at the table. "He's a cool head and can handle his shit under pressure," Kozik started. "He's a quick study, too. Can practically assemble an AK with his eyes closed."

"Already sounds better than his ginormous friend," Chibs added, referring to Filthy Phil. "At least he don't have himself a set of big, fat, meaty butter-fucking-fingers."

The men around the table nodded as they rolled their eyes and recalled a recent run where the overly-large and clumsy Prospect had dropped a case of AKs during an exchange with Laroy's crew, busting the crate wide open.

Opie nodded. "I agree with Kozik. I sponsored him, trained him and vetted him myself. I think he's ready to handle the weight of responsibility." He picked up the gavel. "All those in favor?"

As his brothers nodded, with Piney reluctantly shrugging his shoulders before giving his assent, Opie slammed the gavel down.

"Done," he declared. Looking at Chibs, Opie nodded. "Now that we've lost a Prospect and gained a brother, I hear you have a couple of hang-arounds you wanna recommend."

"Since Half Sack died and tha' pussy coward Shepherd run off, pickins have been slim 'round da Clubhouse, but I've bin watchin' Ratboy and V-Lin. Dey both seem hungry for da opportunity," Chibs explained. "I kno' tha' Jax and Clay had bin interested in Ratboy fer sure."

Opie sighed. All this administrative bullshit was a nuisance, but it had to be done. "Yeah, I've seen them around, _a lot_. Have they been vetted?"

"Juicy Boy looked into dem a bit before he went inside." Chibs flipped through the paperwork that he had in a file in front of him. "Dey look legit."

"I can count on you to put them through their paces?" Opie eyed him.

"I will run dem intae da fuckin' ground, brutha!" Chibs enthused.

"I want some of that action, too," Kozik chipped in. "Nothing I love more than making a Prospect cry."

"All right, let's vote it," Opie suggested.

The meeting continued for another thirty minutes as they tackled an assortment of housekeeping issues, including the garage and the Club's continued efforts to get the insurance company to pay for the warehouse destroyed by Darby and his crew. Soon after, they moved on to matters that had the potential to impact the Club's earning capability.

"So what's the score with the new lawman in town?" Opie asked Kozik as he lit another cigarette.

"His name's Eli Roosevelt, formerly with Oakland PD's gang unit," Kozik started. "He's been pretty quiet so far, but word is Charming PD's old station house has been flooded with an influx of new deputies. I'm actually kinda of surprised they haven't paid us a visit yet."

"No need to go borrowing trouble," Piney stated. "I'm sure they'll come sniffing around soon enough. I'll reach out to Unser, though. See if he has any Intel to share."

"How's he doin'? I've nae seen him 'round," Chibs asked.

"Gem keeps in touch with him. Now that he's been forced out as Chief of Charming PD, he's been spending time building up his trucking business," Piney replied.

"Business must be slow," Opie noted. "He hasn't called on us to do any protection runs in months."

Piney snorted. "Maybe the Club's too small for his needs now."

Opie didn't like the sound of that. "Chibs, reach out to Unser and see what's going on," he suggested.

"Will do, brutha."

Opie sighed and ran a large hand through his long hair. "I know you're all probably anxious to hear about my visit with Jax yesterday. Well, I finally have something to share regarding this deal that Clay wants to bring to the table."

"I hope it's good. Wit' Putlova takin' da bulk of our stock, money's a rare commodity these days, brutha," Chibs said.

"And I thought shit was tight in Tacoma, but this shit right here is goddamn ridiculous," Kozik chimed in. "Whatever this deal is, I hope it includes a way to get Putlova off our backs. Instead of paying these Russian pricks restitution, we should be making _them_ pay for what they did to Jax."

"According to what Jax was able to share, this deal's gonna kill two birds with one stone," Opie replied quietly and for the next several minutes filled them in on what little Jax was able to pass on during his visit.

"I don't like it," Piney stated emphatically. The grouchy patch picked up his shot glass and knocked back the contents. "Any buyer from Mexico in need of that kind of heavy artillery can mean only one thing. It's a fuckin' cartel."

"You're prolly right, Pop, and it's a huge risk," Opie stated. "But in the end, they're just customers. They want guns, we have guns. And if they have the type of connections that Jax says they have, we'll have protection when we go after Putlova and his crew."

Without being able to speak freely about the deal while sitting in the middle of Stockton's crowded Visitor's Center, a part of Opie was surprised by Jax's commitment to this new endeavor. Especially since the idea of getting deeper into gun running only to back away from it later wasn't making a whole lot of sense to the Club's gentle giant and Acting President.

"And we're tae start business wit' dem now, lad? How, wit' Putlova gettin' all da stock?" Chibs questioned.

"The deal won't come into play until they get out of Stockton and only after Putlova is out of the picture," Opie replied.

"Can't wait," Kozik clapped his hands together. "So what's the plan?"

"Jax and Clay are working on it. I'm sure once we vote on it, they'll be able to focus on the logistics. In the meantime, knowing what we know, we need to figure out where we each stand on this new deal. Clay wants a vote on it soon." Opie paused as he looked around the table. "Unless anybody has any other business, I think were done," he shrugged and slammed the gavel down.

* * *

Walking through the Chapel doors, Opie headed straight to the bar, sorely in need of a drink.

Signaling to Filthy Phil, the Prospect poured four fingers of Jack into a glass and lining up more shots and beers, served the rest of the brothers as they crowded around the bar.

Chibs watched quietly as his powerfully built brother easily knocked back the entire contents of his glass. "Yer seem tae need dat, brutha," he said as he picked up his own shot of Jameson.

Opie pointed a large index finger at his empty glass and called for a refill. Grabbing his drink, he silently motioned with a nod of his head for Chibs to follow him outside. Taking a seat on top of the picnic table, Opie waited as his brother followed suit. "This is some really weird shit we're having to deal with now, Chibs."

The older man eyed him thoughtfully. He wasn't at all surprised that the younger man was feeling the heavy weight of leadership on his shoulders. Taking the reigns of an organization like SAMCRO was not for the faint of heart under any circumstances. Chibs could only imagine that strain being tenfold with the MC at its weakest. There was no doubt in his mind, however, that Opie was more than capable of taking care of business, despite all the shite he had endured over the past year.

"Aye, it is, but we're gonna come through on da other side of it all," Chibs declared as Opie eyed him with a furrowed brow. "You gotta believe tha', brutha. You don't, other members will see cracks in da foundation and before ya know it, da whole shyte collapses 'round us."

Opie nodded as he stared at the contents of his glass. "I know, but shit is sure different from the other side of that gavel. I just keep waiting for some good shit to happen for a change and it never does."

"I wouldna say neva', brutha. Yer been keeping yer bride waiting at da altar a long time," Chibs teased. "Mayhap yer ought to marry her now."

"Can't do that without my brother," Opie said easily, "and Lyla's okay with waiting until the guys get out."

"Aye, so it's only a few more months of freedom fer ya befor' ya properly leg-shackled." Chibs pursed his lips. Considering all that Opie had gone through, it was almost hard to believe that he had lost his young wife almost a year ago. Chibs wondered if marrying again so soon was what the younger man really wanted and so he asked him. "Are ya sure dat's wha' ya wanna do, Ope?"

Sipping his drink, Opie was quiet for a long moment. He had avoided asking himself that same question for months now, convinced that it just made sense that he and Lyla tie the knot. Opie felt like he needed a fresh start and what he wanted was some sort of family life again. Confronted by the doubt Chibs' question ignited, he couldn't help but wonder if Lyla was the right fit for his crazy, outlaw life.

Opie narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of Tara in a black tank top and a pair of green scrubs talking to Lowell outside the garage. A pediatric surgeon, Jax's old lady was Lyla's polar opposite in every way.

_Except one_, Opie thought as he watched Tara head back to the office with a clipboard of paperwork.

Opie was actually surprised to see Tara on the lot. He had known the young doctor since high school and, unlike his best friend, Opie hadn't been taken by surprise when Tara had picked up and left Charming and Jax almost eleven years ago. Back then, Club life had been less complicated for Jax and Opie as relatively new patches and Tara still had trouble coping with it. Now that she was back, if her way of coping with Club life was to stay away from it and pretend it didn't exist, Opie knew from painful experience that shit wasn't going to work out for neither Tara or Jax. At least Lyla tried, which was something Donna had refused to do. Still, Opie couldn't help but wonder what would happen if Lyla ever found herself in Tara's shoes with _three_ children to care for instead of one and an old man in prison. With a barely audible sigh, Opie acknowledged knowing that Lyla would crumble under the weight of all that.

Instead of unburdening himself on his brother, Opie slapped on a smile as he swallowed his feelings of apprehension.

"I'm sure," he said with false confidence.

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Saturday, September 26, 2009**_

_Some shit just never changes, _Gemma Teller-Morrow thought as she walked into Stockton Prison's Visitor's Center.

The medium-sized room was crowded with tables and gray metal chairs. The barred and gated windows did their job in keeping the inmates in, but they also did a fairly good job in keeping the room dreary by keeping the sunlight out. The walls were drab and dirty and the only visible joy in the room was painted on the faces of the inmates as they visited with their loved ones.

Gemma, however, never let the starkness of such facilities get her down. Over the years, she had walked through the doors of more than her fair share of prisons to visit JT, Clay, her son and a variety of other Club members. Taking care of loved ones was what Gemma did best and visiting imprisoned loved ones was a part of that, a part of the life she loved and, as matriarch of the mother charter, she had come to accept. It was something that Tara had yet come to grips with, Gemma noted, sighing inwardly as she watched the young doctor make her way over to her son as she carried Abel in her arms.

It would be a bittersweet reunion Gemma knew and, deciding to give them some time alone, went off to the far corner to where her old man was waiting for her.

_He looks tired_, Gemma thought as she walked towards Clay, who stood up bearing a grin that was threatening to split his face in two. _He looks older, too. This place is doing a hell of a number on my family._

Determined to be a rock for her old man, Gemma tamped down her anxiety and embraced her old man, grinning as one of his hands managed to find a home on her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I guess someone's happy to see me," she whispered huskily.

"You guessed right, Gem," Clay replied as he pulled away from Gemma and looked into her brown eyes. "You guessed right."

* * *

Thoughts of his family back home in Charming kept Jax whole while living in the purgatory that was prison. They were all he could think about as plans for their future consumed his every waking moment. It was almost like Jax was going through the motions of living in between visits with his old lady and son. Stockton was robbing him of his humanity, bringing him to the point where he relished the pain he had felt when Tara had hugged him. Even 5½ months after the attack, Jax was still in the process of healing and suffering from a considerable amount of pain. But physical pain was good because it meant he was still alive, even though his heart felt like a dead weight in his chest.

Jax waited for the feeling of euphoria to kick in as he held the warm little body of his one-year old son in his arms for the first time in months. The moment, however, was proving bittersweet for Jax as a shadow crossed his face and his eyes fell to his old lady's flat stomach and empty arms—arms that should have been holding what would have been their two-week old newborn. His family was incomplete and he was to blame. Acknowledging the role he had played in the death of their unborn baby was painful, and _that_ kind of pain was not good.

Jax wasn't a man who suffered failure easily. When he set his mind to something, he never left any room for it. In his world, failure more often than not meant death and he had failed Tara the moment he had pushed her away. Abel's kidnapping had left him grief-stricken and feeling lost. In hindsight, Jax could finally admit to himself that he had bitterly resented his old lady, believing she had not done enough to protect his son. That resentment had left Tara and, unknown to him, their unborn son unprotected and vulnerable.

Tara had lost the pregnancy during her time being held captive by Hector Salazar and his old lady, but there was no way Jax couldn't blame himself. The loss had nearly crushed him and almost prevented him from staying focused in order to bring to a conclusion all the events he had set in motion to free his mother, get Jimmy O and end Stahl.

Going inside literally two days after returning from Belfast, there had been no time to grieve together. Even though he had sincerely apologized for the hell he had put her through before leaving for Ireland, Jax couldn't believe that not only had Tara chosen to stay in Charming, but was raising Abel while he did his time. Jax wouldn't have blamed her if had she left. Although he had only witnessed his mother's grief when Tommy had died, Jax now knew what it felt like to lose a child.

With Tara having paid the ultimate price, however, there was a part of Jax that wondered if starting over when he got out of prison was truly possible. He wondered if Tara, who was so good at hiding her true emotions, resented him for the loss of their child like he had resented her after Abel's kidnapping. Even though Jax knew she had every right to, he hoped she didn't because after all they had already been through, he believed they could overcome anything.

Looking up from the book he was reading to Abel, Jax's clear blue eyes met Tara's dark green ones. She smiled at him sadly and suddenly Jax wasn't so sure anymore that they could.

* * *

"Clay, how is Jax doing? _Really?_" Gemma asked as her eyes wandered to the little family on the opposite side of the room. Abel was now sitting happily on his father's lap, their heads close together as Jax held open a small book he was quietly reading from while Tara watched.

"He's doing fine, Gem. As well as can be expected," Clay replied as he placed a large hand over hers.

"I worry about him, you know, about all of you in this shit hole, but Jax—" Gemma stopped as she suddenly found her lips trembling and tightened them. "He almost died, baby," she could barely bring herself to say aloud.

"I know and believe me, there _will be_ payback," her old man assured her quietly after one of the C.O.'s walked by and repositioned himself against the far wall. "We've got seven more months in here, sweetheart, but I promise you that we're all gonna make it out of this alive." Clay focused his steely blue eyes on Gemma's. "We've got protection and I have shit in play. We're gonna be all right in _every way_ that matters," he said evenly.

Gemma nodded. After more than 15 years of marriage, and knowing Clay for over 30 years, she had learned to read between the lines. He was being as clear as he could, considering his present circumstances. She could only hope that the plans he had in motion gave her the satisfaction of knowing that the men responsible for gutting her son paid and paid bloody.

It was a situation the Queen knew she had to suck up and get over. She needed to have faith that her boys could handle their shit and watch each other's backs going forward. Meanwhile, back in Charming, Gemma had her own situation to deal with that she needed to discuss with her old man.

"I'm worried about Tara," Gemma admitted.

Clay sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair. "She having a hard time?"

"Actually, no. She's handling her job down at the hospital quite well. Even helped Chucky run the garage while I was under house arrest and drops by on occasion to lend a hand when we're busy. It's just that I know what it's like to lose a child," Gemma said and, feeling the familiar ache in her heart, paused. "She sidesteps any discussion about the miscarriage. Her due date came and went and _nothing_. I think she's in denial."

"Can you blame her, Gem?" Clay shook his head as he looked at her soberly. "Considering the circumstances, living in denial is prolly Tara's way of protecting herself. It ain't been easy for Jax either. I know in his heart he blames himself, but the last thing he wants to do is talk about it. They didn't have time to mourn the loss together. You just need to give her time and keep her together until we get out. Things are looking up for the Club, baby, I promise you. Her losing our grandchild, it's a bad knock, but she's gone through a lot of shit and she's still around."

"This time," Gemma allowed.

Clay's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "You thinking she's gonna jump ship again?"

"I don't know," Gemma stopped then started again. "I don't think so, but there's no way for me to know for sure. It's not just the baby she's not talking about, it's _everything_. I just can't get a read on her, but I _know_ there's something she's not telling me."

"Did ya ever stop to think that maybe she's not telling you because it's none of your business?" Her old man asked with a smile. "Just sayin'."

"Shut up," Gemma groused as she playfully swatted at his hands. "When are you gonna learn that _everything's_ my business?"

"Sorry, sweetheart. I must have lost my mind there for a second," Clay kidded. "Look, all I'm saying is don't go setting any fires when there's nothing to burn. Tara's stuck around this long. She's not gonna bail on Jax now."

Gemma nodded and then quickly changed the subject. In the back of her mind and in her heart, however, she wasn't convinced.

* * *

Stockton State Penitentiary was about a thirty-minute drive back to Charming. Looking in the rear view mirror, Tara watched Gemma sitting in the back seat as she fed her grandson a snack of Goldfish crackers and apple juice. Finding herself staring longer than she had expected, Tara moved her eyes back to the road and found that she had inadvertently crossed the double yellow line into the next lane. She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white and gently maneuvered the cobalt blue Nissan Rouge back into her lane as other vehicles moved around and past her.

The rush hour traffic around her seemed like a fitting metaphor for her life. It often seemed to Tara that she was on a never-ending road where other people were constantly on the move, cutting her off and doing reckless shit, forcing her to repeatedly change her route, always feeling like she would never make it to her final destination.

Allowing herself to revisit the last few hours, Tara face tightened. With Jax more than halfway through his sentence, she realized that her visits to Stockton were getting harder, not easier. Thinking of how she had nearly lost him only a month into his sentence brought tears to her eyes, which she quickly dashed away, stealing a look into the rear view to make sure Gemma couldn't see her.

As was the norm as of late, with the tears came an overwhelming sense of guilt. Although she loved Jax, a small part of her—a part she was ashamed to admit to herself existed—wished that he hadn't pulled through. Her heart would have suffered irreparable damage, but leaving Charming behind once and for all would have been that much easier.

Tara loved Jax, but the truth was she wished she didn't. If she could stop, she would because her life would be so much easier if she _just didn't_.

Tara twisted her lips, remembering the choices she had made in hopes of making a clean break from Charming and from Jax. Leaving would have been so simple too, especially with Jax going inside and the baby she had been carrying no longer an issue. But she had been weak and had believed him every time he said shit would get better. Regardless what Gemma thought to the contrary, Tara knew Jax didn't believe that anymore than she did.

_I chose to believe him_, Tara thought bitterly as she negotiated through traffic. _And I have no one to blame but myself_.

Tara remembered asking Gemma if shit would ever slow down for the MC, just stop long enough to give her a chance to catch her breath. Well, shit had finally slowed down, giving Tara ample time to think things through and re-examine the decisions she made and realized that she had made all the wrong ones.

Allowing her eyes to briefly look down and to the right, Tara eyed her handbag sitting next to her on the passenger seat. Having changed her mind yet again about giving Jax the ticking time bomb she had found in his backpack after he returned from Ireland, Tara gripped the steering wheel and refocused her attention on the road.

Determined to make the right call this time around, Tara decided to keep what she found a secret, hoping that almost dying in prison had been enough of a wake up call for Jax. Once he got out, she would broach the subject of them leaving Charming _together_ and the explosive content of those letters would only work against that. The last thing she wanted to do was give Jax another reason to stay.

But if Tara had learned one thing since her return to Charming it was that nothing ever went according to plan. Somehow she knew that getting rid of those letters was as big a mistake as giving them to Jax would be.

_What would Gemma do?_ she thought with a slight smirk. Having read the letters and knowing Gemma Teller-Morrow all too well, Tara knew exactly what Gemma would do and decided to do the exact opposite.

Tara would hold onto JT's letters to Maureen Ashby for now. What she had discovered within had been buried so deep that proof in John's own hand would be needed to ground the far-fetched in reality and there was no telling when delivering a healthy dose of reality would come in handy down the road.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Stockton State Penitentiary, CA – Wednesday, October 21, 2009**_

There was nothing Happy hated more than doing fuckin' laundry. In all of his 43 years, he was proud to say that with the exception of a six month period of his life, he never had to wash his own clothes.

Like the good Cuban mother she took pride in being, Amelia—as many women had since the dawn of time—catered to her only son's every need. As a result, as far as Happy knew, when his clothes got dirty, he would drop them in the vicinity of the hamper in his bathroom and they would magically reappear clean and neatly folded in the chest of drawers in his bedroom. It was just the way it was in most Hispanic households and, as far as Happy was concerned, it was the right and proper way of the world.

In making the move to Charming to take JT up on his job offer, being expected to do his own laundry had been something akin to culture shock. To this day, Happy still felt a certain amount of embarrassment at how JT's old lady had taken him to task because he couldn't figure out how to use the washing machine located at the far end of the long hall of dorm rooms in the Clubhouse.

"I _never_ would have pegged you as a Mama's boy," the tall platinum-streaked brunette had scolded, shaking her head disdainfully as she helped him properly sort his laundry. "You can't expect to last too long around here as a prospect if you can't handle the mundane shit like washing your funky drawers, so you better watch me close 'cause I'm only showing you once."

Being formally introduced to JT's old lady, Happy had taken Piney's gruff admonition to make sure he showed the woman proper respect. So far, it had been easy enough as he went about his business in the garage during his first week in town. His interactions with Gemma Teller had been limited to handing over completed work orders and such in the T-M office, but he wasn't blind and he was a fuckin' man after all. As JT's wife, Happy showed Gemma the respect she no doubt had earned, but that didn't mean he hadn't had his fill of checking her out. The woman was definitely a looker and carried herself around with more grace and dignity than the scantily-clad women he had seen hanging around the lot.

Happy had frowned as the woman continued to separate his clothing. "A _prospect_? What's that?" he queried.

Gemma had aimed a pair of dark brown eyes filled with secret knowledge and grinned at him cheekily. "Oh, baby, if I know my husband, you'll find out soon enough," she drawled. "I'm sure John will fill you in on the details once he gets out. What I will tell you is that on this lot, only patched members get privileged services," she pointed a ringed index finger at him. "Remember that."

And so Happy had no choice but to learn how to do his own laundry, and fast. As a result, much like everything else he's ever undertaken the task of learning, Happy became quite proficient at taking care of his own shit. Just like Gemma had said, however, Happy learned soon after patching in and officially moving into a dorm that membership certainly had its privileges. The day he had rode onto the lot with his top rocker proudly on display was the last day Happy had to worry about clean clothes, or just about anything else for that matter, ever again.

A hot piece of brunette ass croweater had approached him with a beer for him in hand and a proposition on her lips. "I am here to take care of you, handsome, in _any_ way you need . . . that is, if you wouldn't mind taking care of _my_ dirty little needs first," she had offered coyly.

Even though today Happy couldn't remember her name to save his life (or maybe he never even knew it to begin with), he knew for a fact that he never had a problem giving the croweater what she wanted. Happy was pretty damn sure that from that day on, he had never again set his eyes on a fuckin' washer and dryer, much less had the need to know how to use them as one croweater always replaced another in taking care of his basic needs. At this point in his life, Happy certainly had no interest or reason to relearn the homemaking skills gleaned off of Gemma Teller so many years ago.

Privileges may come with the patch, but neither the patch nor those privileges followed Happy inside. Instead of having croweaters eager to bend over backwards to do his bidding—and in more ways than just doing his laundry—for the first time in years Happy found himself at the mercy of some dipshit supervisor in the prison's laundry facility. Four days a week, Happy was just one of the beck-and-call bitches working in the laundry, while the other two days a week he worked in the Chow Hall. Seeing what was done to both the laundry and the food, Happy wasn't sure which detail was worse.

The only good that came from hauling around the large heavy carts of rank and dirty sheets and clothes was that it helped to keep his ass in shape. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Happy made his way to the one of the huge industrial-sized washing machines and started dumping the contents of one of the canvas carts into it when he heard someone shout his name over the noise made by the machines and other inmates as they went about their daily duties.

"Lowman? Yo, get your ass downstairs," Dickey Jones, a longtime inmate with ancient skin the color of dry parchment and not nearly as smooth yelled before finally spotting Happy. Dickey—also known as Dickhead, primarily because of his fondness for playing with that particular part of his anatomy—was second-in-command of the morning shift. Regardless, most inmates paid little attention to the annoying and creepy little shit.

"What the fuck for?" Happy replied irritably as he continued to dump the dirty clothes into the washer.

"Cause you got a visitor, asshole," Dickey retorted.

Stopping, Happy turned to face the pipsqueak who had finally made his way over to stand in front of him. "Who?" he asked guardedly.

Dickey threw his hands up in the air. "How the fuck should I know, huh? Do I look like a fuckin' receptionist to you?" Looking at his watch, Dickey squinted. "It's near enough to lunch time. Go see about it and get your ass back here after chow." Turning to another inmate, the supervisor motioned for him to take over Happy's task before looking for someone else to harass.

Side-stepping the cart, Happy slowly made his way to the entrance of the laundry room where one of the bulls was waiting impatiently to escort him to the Visitor's Center. Although his face never betrayed his feelings, inside Happy felt the pit of dread he lived with while in Stockton form into a tight ball in his stomach.

There was only one person who would even think about coming to see him and Marlowe was unlikely to do it of her own free will. That is, unless fate had forced her hand by making a face-to-face visit necessary. Wary that that was the case, Happy steeled himself for news that was unlikely to be good and prepared to hear that his worst nightmare had come true.

* * *

With her long legs crossed underneath the scarred metal table, Marlowe impatiently bounced her combat booted foot as she looked at her watch. Again.

Knowing only too well how government run institutions operated did very little to quell her anxiety. So far, she had been kept waiting close to thirty minutes in the dingy and depressing Visitor's Center with no sign of Happy. To keep herself from dwelling on the possibility that something was wrong, Marlowe concentrated on the fact that she should be pissed off at Happy instead.

After all, the 3½-hour drive from Bakersfield in her busted-ass vehicle had been anything but pleasant and easy. Nearly a third of the way, the Ford Escort had started making a clanking noise from deep within the engine block that had her convinced that she had spent hard earned money for the privilege of dying horribly in a death trap on wheels. She cursed herself for not using Tía's foreign-made car for the trip instead.

_Me and my damn American pride will probably end up getting me killed one day_, Marlowe lamented.

The realization that there would have been no need for her to make the trip at all if Happy would just pick up the phone and call home every once in a while did the trick. No longer nervous or anxious that something had happened to Happy, the righteous anger she had been nurturing for years against the man she loved like a brother returned full throttle. Left with snail mail as the only other vehicle of communication, Marlowe had been left with very little choice but to deliver the news in person. Although she dreaded paying Happy a visit behind bars, what she had to tell him was best said in person anyway.

It had taken her a couple of days to gear up for the stress of having to voluntarily enter a prison once again. It hadn't been an easy decision for Marlowe, but she realized that her feelings had much to do with her own issues than Happy himself.

Having spent the majority of her Naval career in hostile zones around the world, Marlowe decided to suck it up. Ignoring the catcalls and roving eyes of the inmates and bulls alike and with her head held high, she had made her way through the prison's secured entrance designated for all visitors and patiently waited her turn to be called into the room to finally see her big brother.

Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious that it had been quite some time since some of the inmates had laid eyes on a woman, as evidenced by the massive Skinhead sitting at one of the metal tables waiting for his visitor to enter. Walking past him, Marlowe suddenly felt the sting of a heavy hand slapping her on her denim clad ass.

Without a moment's hesitation—and before the C.O. standing guard against the wall near the entrance could intervene—Marlowe's combat training kicked in. Raising her right arm, she used her elbow as a battering ram and slammed it into the inmate's thick neck, striking a sensitive nerve, before she continued on her way to a table at the far end of the room.

A fierce grin spread across her face as she heard the piercing screech of pained surprise emanate from the Skinhead. Marlowe couldn't even be bothered to look back as a scuffle ensued with several guards tackling the suddenly enraged man as he lunged for her. As the large man was dragged out by three equally large guards, the room's other occupants, inmates and visitors alike, laughed uproariously.

"Are you okay, Miss?" Marlowe had looked up as a C.O. approached her table, noting the look of genuine concern on his face, as well as a barely hidden smirk of approval. He had obviously witnessed her "exchange" with the brutish inmate.

"Never better," Marlowe smiled beguilingly. "But if you could help me get my ass out of Dodge by seeing what's keeping my brother, I'd really appreciate it."

"I'll see what I can do about that," the C.O. said with a wry smile.

So Marlowe sat for another ten minutes wondering where the fuck Happy was and felt a sudden rush of relief when he finally walked in.

_He looks good. Too bad about his outfit though_, she thought amused. Wearing a light blue chambray linen shirt over a white undershirt, a pair of denim pants and slip-on shoes, Happy looked so unlike himself it was actually a little unnerving. Seeing him out of the ensemble she had associated with Happy since she was 10 years old—casually worn jeans, boots and the kutte he loved so much on his back—was strange and somewhat disconcerting, to say the least.

"Oh, I hope you didn't postpone a rousing game of shuffleboard on my account. It's not like I mind being kept waiting on your ass all damn day or anything," Marlowe mocked as Happy pulled a cheap metal chair away from the table and straddled it.

Focusing on the young woman sitting across from him, the grim expression on Happy's face didn't change as his dark eyes skimmed over her body. _Ma's right. She is too skinny._

"No, I was actually in the middle of a circle jerk and it was my turn to get my dick sucked," Happy retorted sarcastically. "What the fuck you doing here, Marley?" he asked without missing a beat.

Marlowe rolled her gray eyes flecked with gold. "Well, it's good seeing you too, Hap. I'm well. How are you?" she said with studied sweetness.

"I don't have time for small talk, little girl. Why did you come?" Happy insisted.

"I had no intention of coming, you see, but when I tried leaving a message with the Concierge, I was told to fuck off," Marlowe snarked. "I had no choice but to come see your ass in person since you can't be bothered to pick up a damn phone or write a letter."

Staring into Happy's hardened face, Marlowe sighed and decided that it was time to put an end to the snarkiness. She had come to Stockton with a purpose, but when she opened her mouth to explain the reason for her visit, her overwhelming concern for his well-being just slipped out. "How are you doing, Hap?"

Happy stared into her wide eyes, his heart tightening at the concern he saw on raw display. But as was his style, he quickly put the brakes on any sentimental bullshit. "Fuck how I'm doing, Marlowe. Why are you here instead of in Bakersfield?" he asked brusquely.

"As talkative as ever, I see," Marlowe mumbled under her breath as she turned her head to the side. Sighing with exasperation, Marlowe turned to look Happy again in the eye. "I'm here because I have some news that I thought you deserved to hear face-to-face," she replied soberly as she folded her hands on the table between them.

Bracing for impact, Happy nodded. "Give it to me straight," he said curtly.

Marlowe blinked several times in confusion until it finally dawned on her what "news" Happy was preparing himself to hear. "Oh, shit! No, asshole. Tía's fine," she smiled. "As a matter of fact, what I came to tell you is that she's in complete remission." Now it was Happy's turn to look confused as he narrowed his eyes at her. "That means there's no trace of cancer, Hap. It's gone and she's gonna be just fine."

As Marlowe's words registered as good news, Happy felt the weight of worry finally lift from his heart. Knowing how dangerously close he was to actually showing emotion, Happy simply nodded, not daring to speak. Marlowe, however, could see the emotion and relief making his eyes shine. Reaching out, she placed a gentle hand over his clenched fists lying on the table and smiled when he didn't pull away.

"So, was that worth you missing your turn for a blow job just so you could come down here to see my ugly mug?"

"No," Happy smirked, his eyes hardening again. "You coulda just written a damn letter."

And just that quickly, Marlowe's temper ignited. "You are such a fuckin' asshole!" she snapped angrily. "Not only did I forget what a pain in the ass you can be, but I'm an idiot for thinking that after ten years of not speaking, you might have changed some. You know, become more human."

Happy waved a hand at her dismissively. "Ditto, little girl. You're still the same cranky and hormonal teenage fuckin' lunatic you were back in the day," he retorted.

Marlowe swatted his hand away from her face. "You know, maybe I had it right all those years ago. Once I left, I should have just stayed gone," she sneered as she eyed him balefully. "I honestly don't know why I'd want to stick around for this shit."

"I don't give a shit why you stick around. All I know is that your ass is staying put in Bakersfield," Happy pointed a finger at her. "Don't think that Ma getting the all clear lets you off the hook. You're staying put until I get out."

"Why do you have to act like a prehistoric ape, asshole? I have no intention of leaving Tía," she said in an angry whisper as she noted several bulls looking in their direction. Last thing she wanted was to get thrown out without getting everything she had to say out.

Happy crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm just telling you how shit is gonna be is all."

Realizing that he was simply trying to goad her, Marlowe decided to switch back into messenger mode. "And I'm just trying to tell you that I'm not going anywhere as long as she needs me, and she needs me, Hap," she hedged, and watched as Happy's shoulders tensed.

"What ain't you telling me?"

"It's her knee," Marlowe started. "She's been regaining the weight she lost, which is a good thing, but it's taking its toll on her knee. She needs a replacement, but she's giving everyone a lot of shit about it because she doesn't want to do it."

"So the fuck what?" Happy said irritably. "If it's what her doctor recommends, she has no fuckin' choice, so don't give her one."

"That's easy for the _second_ most stubborn person I've ever known to say," Marlowe retorted. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Hap and no one's making Amelia do what she doesn't want to do. That's why I'm telling you this shit now, so once you get out, _you_ put your foot down and make her go through with it."

"Yeah, right! Like anyone can make that pig-headed Cuban woman do anything," he growled.

"Not anyone, Hap. _You_," Marlowe replied. "Otherwise, according to her orthopedic surgeon, she's got another year tops before she ends up in a wheelchair," she said soberly. "Less mobility will impact her quality of life . . . and may even shorten it."

Happy muttered several choice curses under his breath as he fought the urge to slam his fists onto the table. "Fine," Happy replied, his face firmly set. "I'll handle shit when I get out."

_I figured you would_, Marlowe smiled inwardly. _You ain't a kick ass biker for nothing._

"Anything else I should know?" Happy asked brusquely.

Marlowe shook her head. "No, but I would like something to take back to Tía. How's the joint treating you, old man? You safe inside? Doing time's a young man's game, you know," she snarked.

Thinking of his brother Jax who was still moving around on the slow side, Happy brushed off her concerns. "You can tell Ma I'm good, a'ight? So stop nagging," he replied as Marlowe narrowed her eyes at him. He couldn't tell if she was irked or examining him closely. Fuck if he knew how to read bitches. "And you might want to consider dropping a brother a line a little more often." Suddenly reaching over, Happy kissed Marlowe on the forehead before standing up. "I gotta go. Got shit to do."

Marlowe crossed her arms over her chest. "I drive nearly four fuckin' hours to see you and you're just gonna bounce?" Marlowe winced inwardly as she could hear the disappointment in her own voice.

"Time's wasting, little girl. The longer you stay here, the longer Ma is alone."

"Cut me some slack, will ya? Ceci's with her. I'm not a complete moron, you know."

"You joined the Navy didn't you?" came Happy's parting shot.

Marlowe pursed her lips and glared holes into the back of Happy's gleaming head as he cheerfully bopped his way out of the Visitor's Center.

"Good thing he's locked up," she groused under her breath as she stood up. "Otherwise I'd kill him."

* * *

Although the layout of the Chow Hall in Stockton Prison resembled a high school cafeteria, it was anything but. Instead of cliques of pimple-faced geeks, pretty boy heartthrobs, jocks and Lolitas, the Chow Hall was dominated by groups of hardened criminals of all shapes, sizes and races.

The smell of bland institutional cuisine mixed with the stench of sweaty men wafted through the cavernous room. The enormous cafeteria was designed to feed the 900-plus inmates that occupied each Cell Block three times a day.

Cell Block D's Chow Hall had a reputation to maintain. Housing some of the most violent and dangerous inmates in Stockton, there was always a fight or six for the guards to break up while the rest of the inmates went about their meal time business. After the fight instigated by Clay and which netted the participants two weeks in the hole, the Sons had returned to find that the guards had been newly-equipped with state-issued tasers to deal with unruly inmates. Needless to say, because the guards were sporting new hardware to use against the inmate population, the imprisoned Sons of Anarchy were not a particular favorite among all the crews inhabiting Stockton yard, especially since most guards seemed overly-fond of putting the tasers to use. Luckily, the Double M crew made sure the Sons suffered no reprisals.

Walking through the entrance of the Hall, Happy made his way over to one of the chow lines. There were two of them, one on each side of the large room. Set up cafeteria-style, inmates carried cardboard trays and moved down the line as other inmates wearing rubber gloves and hairnets slapped down large portions of the mediocre and tasteless food passing as the day's mid-day meal.

Trying not to think of his mother's Arroz con Pollo, Happy looked down at his lunch tray with barely contained disgust. As usual, his portion of chicken looked pale, underdone and rubbery with the white rice sitting next to it in a clumpy, sticky ball as a watery scoop of cold canned peas and carrots sloshed around its own sectioned off area of the tray. Grabbing a handful of sliced white bread from a tray at the end of the line, Happy headed over to the far end of the hall to find his brothers sitting at their usual table.

There were approximately 100 long and narrow tables with bench seats big enough to accommodate about 8 inmates uncomfortably in the cafeteria. With the tables practically piled onto one another and nearly sixty armed guards patrolling the aisles as well as the second story walkway, the not-so-inviting ambience did very little to take the inmates' minds off their never ending incarceration.

Shoving Juice over to the side and causing him to choke in mid-chew, Happy inserted his long, sleek frame onto the bench next to Tig.

"Where the fuck you been, bro?" Tig waved a half-eaten drumstick in the air.

"I had some shit that needed seeing to," Happy replied as he picked up his chicken breast and ripped into it.

_Not even Ma's adobo seasoning could make this shit palatable_.

Happy dropped the chicken onto this tray, slightly disgusted by Bobby's display of half-chewed food as he ate and tried talking at the same time. "I heard you got called out of laundry detail."

Happy nearly rolled his eyes at the comment. The speed at which prison gossip traveled never ceased to amaze him, nor the fact that his brothers could probably give gossipy old biddies a run for their money.

It seemed, however, that Tig and Bobby weren't alone in their keen interest in Happy's affairs.

"I hope your visitor came bearing good news. We could sure use some of that shit around here." Sitting across the table and to Bobby's left, Jax Teller's blue eyes settled on Happy's dark ones.

"Shit," Happy blustered, "do you fuckers know the color of my boxers too?"

"Blue," Juice volunteered and felt his skin heat up with embarrassment as everyone laughed. "_What_? I _am_ his cell mate and as Intel officer it's my job to notice shit."

"You notice shit, huh? Did you happen to notice what color my skid marks were too?" Happy retorted, slightly annoyed that nothing remained a secret long around the SAMCRO crew. SAMTAC brothers weren't nearly as much into his business as this crew was. "Fuck, I think I need a new cellie."

"Too bad Deon ain't available," Clay said with a smirk as his brothers laughed uproariously. "I'm sure he'd _love_ to get in touch with Juicy Boy's feminine side."

"Okay, just quit it you guys, a'ight?" Juice pleaded, his cheeks blazing crimson.

"Juice can always find somebody to fuck him up the ass. Let's get back to the subject of Hap's visitor," Tig insisted, earning a death glare from the Unholy One himself. "I'm gonna kick your ass if it was one of them fuckin' croweaters and you didn't tell me shit."

"It wasn't, asshole," Happy growled as he wiped his greasy chicken hands on a thin paper napkin. "It was about my Ma."

The table suddenly quieted as all eyes fell on Happy. "Everything a'ight, bro?" Jax asked with concern.

If there was only one thing every brother around the table knew about Happy Lowman it was how much he cared for and worried about his mother. After putting in a significant amount of time with the Tacoma charter, Happy had willingly relinquished the responsibilities and privileges he had earned in order to go Nomad. All so that he could be that much closer to Bakersfield as his mother dealt with a serious illness.

"It was good news," Happy nodded at Jax. "Her cancer's in remission," he continued and although it was said noncommittally, it was evident by the light in his brown eyes just how pleased he was.

As his brothers congratulated him and slapped him on the back, Happy realized just how much he loved the brotherhood. Even though he rarely ever shared the burden of the shit he was dealing with, his brothers could sense when something was amiss. Although they never pressured him to talk, they always made it known that he wasn't dealing with shit alone. Through his mother's illness and anything else he had endured in his nearly 20 years as a Son, his brothers always had his back.

"That's cool that she was able to come tell you in person," Juice replied. "I would have liked to have met her."

"She didn't come herself, idiot. My sis—" Happy paused, rethought his answer and played off misspeaking by coughing. "Her caregiver drove up to let me know."

"Really? All the way from Bakersfield?" Clay took another painful stab at his rubber chicken. "You must be paying this broad big bucks for her to make time to come and tell you in person."

"Nah, not really. She and Ma go way back. No big shit," Happy said, the thought that he was over sharing making him feel suddenly uneasy. As much as he loved both the Club and his family, he pretty much did his best to keep them far apart. It was just the way he liked it. No one really knew anything about his mother, not even her name and they certainly didn't know about the crazy little sister he had adopted without quite knowing how so many years ago. "Anyway, shit's all good. Even though Ma did pull my ear by proxy for not calling and shit."

"I feel ya, bro," Jax started as he thought about his mother. "Gemma gave me all kinds of shit for the same reason. I know she worries, but I just wish I had taken your advice and left the outside where it belongs a lot sooner."

"You learned your lesson the hard way, brother. I don't think it's one you'll be needing to learn again," Happy focused his gaze on Jax knowingly. "And we'll be handling that shit soon enough too."

"Damn straight," Clay said as he pointed a fork at Jax. "Now that the deal has passed, we just need to sit tight and work out our strategy. Soon enough we'll be back in Charming and our state-sponsored vacation will be nothing but a bad fuckin' memory."

As Happy continued to half-heartedly eat his food, his mind wandered as he thought about Clay's words. Now that he knew that his mother and Marlowe were doing okay, he could more fully focus on getting out alive.

He was already looking forward to the day when he could go home again.

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Friday, January 8, 2010**_

Standing in the corridor outside Margaret Murphy's office door, Tara vacillated between paying heed to her head or her heart.

After nearly eleven months of simply living in the moment from day to day, it was the last visit that she had made with Abel to see Jax that was suddenly spurring her to take action. Sitting in the Visitor's Center and watching the two Teller men bond, Tara had felt her heart stir with emotion. It had taken quite some time, but a healthy color had returned to her old man's skin, as had the shape and definition of the muscle tone he had lost while recuperating from the devastating attack that had nearly killed him.

Tara was glad that the SAMCRO VP was regaining his strength and vigor. As a doctor, learning of the extent of his injuries and the several setbacks he had suffered during recovery, Tara had been unsure whether or not he would actually pull through. She was grateful he had and had prayed that he would many nights as she lay all alone in their bed. Now that he had, however, the realization that he would be home in three short months hit her like a blow to the gut.

_Jax is coming home!_

What should have felt like jubilation coursing through her body, making the butterflies in her belly take flight, felt more like a cold dread seeping in through her skin and turning her blood to ice. The initial fluttering in the pit of her stomach had hardened into a ball of fear and loathing. Tara feared what living an outlaw life with Jax would entail and loathed what doing so could potentially turn her into.

_Gemma!_

The thought of ending up like Jax's manipulative, control freak of a mother scared the shit out of Tara. She had come close to morphing into a "fierce" old lady once before, racking up one arrest after another for everything from drunk and disorderly conduct to catfighting in the parking lot of Murphy's Supermarket.

At sixteen, Tara had foolishly thought she had all the answers and didn't care where or how she ended up as long as she ended up with Jax. At nineteen, however, after Jax had patched into SAMCRO, Tara got a real taste of what that really meant and she didn't like it at all. She still loved Jax, but knew that she needed more than just the Club to make her happy. It had broken her heart when Jax had refused to leave Charming and the Club when she decided to go to college in San Diego, but in the long run, leaving had been the best decision Tara could have made for herself.

_Coming back, not leaving, was the greatest mistake of my life_, Tara thought bitterly.

If Jax could not bring himself to leave the Club he had only just patched into when they were nineteen, what chance did he have of doing just that after twelve years of living the Life while separated from Tara? He swore that he loved her. That he loved her since they were sixteen and had never stopped loving her. But just because two people loved each other passionately didn't mean that they were meant to be together, especially not when it caused detriment to one or both.

Moonlighting as the Club's doctor had nearly caused her to lose her job in St. Thomas more than once. As much as Tara loved Jax, she loved being a surgeon as well. It gave her life meaning to be capable of saving a baby's life with her hands and her mind working together. It certainly gave her greater satisfaction than having to stitch up dog bites and bullet wounds on ass cheeks!

Maybe it was already too late for Tara to come to this realization. _Maybe I should just let it all be_, but on a darker, deeper level, Tara knew that she wouldn't be able to.

If reading the letters John Teller had written to Maureen Ashby nearly 16 years ago had been a mistake, then looking into the circumstances surrounding his death had been an abomination, a curse she was now burdened with. Knowing what she knew now—about Gemma, Clay, JT and Unser—made staying with Jax in Charming a tragedy just waiting to happen. There was no telling what Gemma and Clay were capable of doing to keep their dirty little secret from Jax. And any hope Tara might harbor of getting Jax to leave if she gave him the letters was foolish at best because if the truth concerning JT's death was anything as she suspected, having Jax read those letters would doom them both to a very unhappy future.

_It's time for me to take control of my own destiny, and this is the only way I can see it happening_.

And with that thought at the forefront of her mind, Tara knocked on the door.

"Come in," Margaret called out as she flipped through several reports on her desk. With her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she looked up to see Tara standing in her doorway, and smiled. "Tara, what can I do for you?"

Margaret's eyes widened in surprise as without a word, Tara walked into her office and closed the door silently behind her before marching across the room to sit in the chair in front of her desk. It took Tara a moment to gather her thoughts as she moistened her lips and prepared to speak. But before she could open her mouth, Tara's shoulders started shaking violently in distress and to her own complete and utter shock, she burst into tears.

Quickly rising from her desk, Margaret walked around it to sit in the chair opposite Tara and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Tara, what in the world is the matter?" she asked urgently.

"I—I'm sorry," Tara blubbered as she grasped the wad of tissues that Margaret thrust into her hands. "It's just that I think I made a really big mistake," she sniffled and lifted her red-rimmed eyes to her co-worker's face.

Sighing, Margaret ran a hand through her short dark red hair and struggled to find some words of comfort. "Tara, I know that there are times when we do things that we may later regret," she started quietly. "But if regret is what you're feeling, you shouldn't. In light of everything that has happened—Abel's kidnapping, _our_ kidnapping, Jax's incarceration—and everything that will most likely happen, deciding not to bring another child into this life was the best you could have done, for yourself and that child. If you ever decide to get away, having a child with Jax would have made that impossible. He would _always_ be a part of your life as the father of that child. Instead, you have put a stop to the damaging cycle of violence you have fallen into," Margaret explained vehemently, only to watch Tara shake her head adamantly.

"You don't understand," Tara cried as she mopped away her tears. "I don't regret having the abortion. I _regret_ staying in this fuckin' town after Jax went inside!"

As Margaret heaved a sigh of relief, Tara got up from her chair and grabbed a fresh wad of Kleenex, blowing her nose furiously before dumping the used tissues into the wastebasket by the desk.

Leaning against the desk with her arms crossed over her chest, Tara shook her head. "I should have just left. The moment Jax got hauled away to Stockton, I should have returned to Chicago. After fourteen months, Jax would not have come after me and I could have put this whole nightmare life I've created for myself behind me."

"Why didn't you?" Margaret asked earnestly.

"Because I loved him," Tara replied sadly. Pausing, she tucked several loose strands of hair behind her ear. "My greatest fault has always been loving Jax more than I loved myself and I HATE myself in Charming!" Taking a deep breath to keep the tears from flowing again, Tara let it out as a shudder. "I wanted so badly to believe him every time he said that things were going to change for the better, but it finally started to dawn on me that the past eleven months have been the most peaceful I've enjoyed since returning to Charming. I may have to accept that we're not meant to be happy together and that if I try to stick it out, Jax and the MC will only bring me down to the point where I won't be able to recover from it."

As Margaret nodded her head sympathetically, Tara thought about Gemma. As a teenager, Tara had hated Gemma and she knew all too well that the feeling had been mutual. This time around, however, after a bumpy start and after Gemma's brutal rape, they had managed to find common ground and had grown closer. As a result, Gemma had taken her under her wing, so to speak, in order to groom her into the perfect old lady for her son. They had grown so close that Gemma was able to detect that something had been off with Tara and had guessed that the young woman had been pregnant. She had foolishly trusted that the SAMCRO matriarch would keep her secret and it was Tara's fault for not realizing sooner that Gemma was loyal to only one person: her son Jax.

After Abel's kidnapping, Tara's relationship with Jax had taken a turn for the worse. She knew deep down that Jax blamed her for the fact that Cameron Hayes had taken off to Ireland with his son, but not before killing the Prospect Half Sack. He had gone out of his way to treat her badly and Tara knew she should have seen Jax fucking Ima as the final nail in their coffin. After Jax had left for Belfast, Tara had made the decision to go through with the abortion before heading back to Chicago.

Hector Salazar had thwarted her getaway plan by kidnapping her and Margaret. And with Jax risking his life to save her, Tara had postponed her exit strategy until Jax was in Stockton. Learning that he knew about the pregnancy had thrown her and after all Jax had been through with Abel, Tara didn't have the heart to tell him she had aborted their baby. She also had no idea that concealing that loss as a miscarriage would have the same devastating effect on him.

Now with the Club inside, Tara had been slowly pulling herself away from Gemma and as a result was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid Gemma's pressing questions about her future with Jax and Abel. As Gemma tried to comfort her about her "losing" the baby, all Tara could think about was how right Jax had been. She should have returned to Chicago after Kohn had been dealt with.

Now, there were only three months left before Jax came home and the urge to run had finally kicked in again.

Focusing her gaze on Margaret, Tara found the confidence she needed to finally give voice to what she wanted. "I need a favor," Tara began without hesitation. "I need you to get me some information on a couple of out-of-state hospitals." Pulling a folded piece of paper out of her lab coat, Tara handed it to the astonished woman. "I've been doing some research. There are two hospitals, one in Oregon and the other in Seattle with openings in the neo-natal department."

"You're thinking of leaving Charming?" Margaret said quietly, the hopeful relief clearly evident in her voice.

_Finally! _Margaret rejoiced inwardly. _I was about to give up hope_.

In so many ways, Margaret had seen herself in Tara as she had been so many years ago, living a destructive life with a destructive and selfish man hell bent on destroying them both. She had also believed that this man was the love of her life. It had finally taken her almost dying to realize that there was more to life than what she had been living. For a long while now, Margaret believed that Tara would never get that message, choosing to stay in Charming after they had both suffered horribly at the hands of one of the MC's enemies. Staying while her old man did time and raising his child by another woman—a drug addict—Margaret knew that Tara was losing a bit of herself with every day that passed.

Now it seemed as if the young surgeon was finally waking up to the realities of her life. Now more than ever she knew that Tara needed her help in order to make the final break that would free her from a life she wasn't meant to live. Dr. Tara Knowles—a smart, bright and capable young woman—was destined for greater things and Margaret Murphy was determined to get her there.

Tara shook her head slightly. "I'm not 100% there yet, but I'm working on it," she admitted morosely.

Getting up from her seat, Margaret reassuringly squeezed Tara's shoulder and smiled as their eyes met. "Everything will be just fine, Tara. I'm going to help you."

* * *

**A/N: Many thanks to those that are faithfully reading and reviewing. I wouldn't mind getting a little more love, so please take a moment to share your thoughts in the box below and brighten my day. Hugs, Harlee. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Sunday, April 11, 2010**_

Jax was livid, his strong jaw clenched and his nostrils flared as he sat seething in the driver's seat of T-M's tow truck.

Freedom was a precious commodity, especially to an outlaw like Jax Teller. Unlike most ordinary citizens, he knew what it was like to live without it and hated it. After fourteen months of imprisonment, Jax had finally walked out of Stockton Prison less than 24 hours ago a free man, a feat he had feared would be impossible after getting shanked a month into his sentence.

Sitting in the shitty junk pile of Aadlen Auto Wrecking in Oakland, watching as Clay climbed into the passenger side holding a large and crumpled brown paper bag, the sense of freedom Jax had enjoyed the moment he had slipped into his kutte was gone. Now, the kutte he had coveted as a young boy but was now forced to hide underneath a zip-up hoodie weighed heavy on his back. Jax was feeling the binding constraints of the Club he loved so much as the truth of just how deep a shit hole the Sons of Anarchy were in was revealed to him. SAMCRO's President had once again made an executive decision without fully informing his brothers. A decision which could have dire consequences for the entire organization.

Feeling his rage build exponentially, all Jax wanted to do was plow his balled up fist repeatedly into his stepfather's face. Instead, he ran a frustrated hand over his closely cropped hair, his blue eyes shooting daggers into the steel blue eyes set in a craggy face looking back at him void of remorse.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Clay, getting us into this shit?!" Jax raged.

"I was thinking about the Club, Jax, about getting us solvent for one," Clay shot back angrily. "This is a deal of a lifetime. What we're gonna earn over the next year is more than what we earned running guns for the last ten and muling the coke for the Galindo Cartel is a necessary part of that. It was all or nothing. More important than the money, son, they promised us the protection we needed so that I could keep us—_you_—fuckin' breathing. The Cartel—"

"Fuck that, Clay! Go blow that smoke up somebody else's ass," Jax interrupted heatedly, the extraneous sounds of the junkyard not loud enough to mask his fury. "Don't use concern for my welfare to shift the responsibility of this clusterfuck on me. This shit here," he pointed an index finger at Clay, "is all about the fuckin' money!"

Clay's eyes widened wildly. "Don't you fuckin' tell me what my motives are! You _and_ this Club are just as important to me as this Cartel deal. Getting in bed with Galindo protected us in Stockton and we need that protection now more than ever after taking care of the Russians last night."

Shaking his head, Jax slumped against his seat and used his thumb and index finger to massage the bridge of his nose in an attempt to get his anger under control. "You do remember throwing a brother off the roof of a building in Belfast because he got in bed with Jimmy O, right? He sidestepped the Club in order to pad his retirement plan, and now you're doing the same shit," Jax said in an eerily quiet monotone.

"McGee betrayed the Club for his _own _gain, which resulted in the death of several of his brothers, including one with ties to this charter. I'm doing what's best for my Club in the hopes that it will benefit _all of us_. That's the difference that you need to recognize," Clay said tersely.

"And it never occurred to you to bring up the fact we'd be trafficking coke for the Galindo Cartel when we voted on the deal?" Jax challenged.

Sighing, Clay ran a hand over his silver hair. "Son, with you out of play, I made a judgment call, but I talked it over with Tig and we felt—"

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Jax exclaimed in exasperation. "What the fuck did you do?!"

Clay winced as he saw the heat in his VP's eyes. In his haste to make Jax see reason, his tongue was quick to drop some knowledge he had meant to keep to himself. Considering the bad blood stirred up by the Donna Winston situation, Clay knew that having Jax find out he had gone to Tig with the truth about the Cartel deal would just stir shit up further. His VP and SAA were constantly at odds, one not trusting the other. Tig questioned Jax's commitment to the Club while Jax felt Tig was too loyal to their President.

Sighing deeply, Clay tried to make his stepson understand his reasons for going behind his back. "Son, maybe you forgot this already, but you almost _died_ in Stockton. The last thing I wanted was to pile any more stress on you. Besides, you were in the infirmary for months. I needed to give Galindo an answer and reaching out to you for your input was impossible. I needed a sounding board, so I took my brother into my confidence."

Jax rolled his eyes as he absorbed Clay's admission. "Yeah, you went to _Tiggy_, who is all about killing shit and less about figuring out whether killing shit is the right way to go. You went to him because you _knew_ he'd side with you, Clay. If what you wanted was a no-bullshit, honest-to-God opinion, you would've gone to Bobby and we wouldn't be having this conversation right now because we both know that Bobby would have squashed this shit."

Clay ran a weary hand over the stubble on his chin. "Maybe you're right," he admitted.

"There's no 'maybe' about it," Jax smirked distastefully. "Have you even contemplated an endgame? Like how the fuck we get out of bed once we're 'solvent' again? We're just small fish in a big fuckin' pond. The only way we get out of a Cartel _drug_ deal is in a pine box."

"You don't know that, son," Clay waved a beefy hand impatiently. "Besides, that's not something we need to worry about _right now_. We'll have plenty enough time to figure out the endgame later. I've been running this Club for over 15 years. I think I know what the fuck I'm doing."

"Do you really?" Jax asked irritably. "You know, I guess you're right. Why worry about getting SAMCRO out of a deal we never even voted on in the first place."

Clay's gaze snapped up to look at Jax as he shook his head. "Voting against it is _not_ an option, Jax," he warned.

"Then why even pretend like a vote counts, bro? Just walk up to the Club and tell them we're fucked and there's nothing they can do about it except patch out," Jax suggested sarcastically.

"That can't happen either," Clay said soberly. "I need everyone at the table on board with this and I'm counting on your support to make this deal happen, Jax. They'll follow your lead if you can convince them that you're sincerely backing my play and you'll even have a prop for your pitch to use as an incentive," he said, nodding at the innocuous brown paper sack that sat between them holding half a million dollars, the Cartel's down payment on their first order.

_He's probably right_, Jax thought bitterly as he ran a hand over his whiskers. _Not many people would turn down a cut of $750,000 every two weeks_.

Jax shook his head. "You're putting way too much faith in my ability to sway the Club, Clay."

"And I say you're not putting enough faith in _yourself_, son. It was _you_, not me, that got us out of the shit with the ATF gash. _You _got us short time in Stockton. _You_ got your mother free from having to serve two consecutive life sentences for murder, and _you_ got your son back. You're a strong leader, Jax," Clay grinned with genuine pride as he slapped a meaty fist on his stepson's shoulder. "I know what _I've_ built."

_Maybe, but are you willing to pay the price for making me so much like you? _Jax thought grimly.

After John Teller died, Clarence Morrow had taken up the task of raising Jax, helping him become the man and the Club member he was now. Since patching in, Jax had spent his time at Clay's side, learning as much as he could from his savvy President, mentor and stepfather. From him Jax had learned to think ten, thirty, even fifty steps ahead of their opponents. Clay had been the one to teach him to always have an endgame in mind and then plot the course of action that would see him to that goal. But in spite of being the one who taught him those lessons, it was becoming increasingly clear to Jax that Clay's focus was on the here and now, and not on the future of the Club where it belonged.

_Shit!_ Jax cursed to himself, knowing that he was between a rock and a hard place.

Jax had spent his time in Stockton carefully plotting out SAMCRO's future in an effort to restore his father's legacy to what JT had originally planned for the Club. If Jax was honest with himself, he was just as much about making money as Clay was. The only difference was that Jax's incentive wasn't personal gain, but saving the MC from dying a slow and bloody death. In order to move the Sons away from gunrunning and into more legitimate businesses, they needed capital and lots of it and selling guns to the Galindo Cartel was the way to make that happen. But that was before Jax knew that muling coke was part of the deal.

Once again, Clay had overstepped his bounds as President. This time around, his desire to do whatever necessary for an easy payday could result in the entire Club having to pay for its way out of the Cartel deal with blood. There was only one way Jax could think of that would give him the power to keep that from happening. All he needed to know now was just how much Clay was willing to sacrifice to get what they _both_ wanted.

Taking the bag that was sitting on the seat next to him, Jax tossed it on the floor underneath his seat before turning slightly to eye his brother. "I'll back you on the coke," he said quietly. Clay nodded his approval, fighting to keep the grin of self-satisfaction as he got his way from widening further. Jax smiled in return as he proceeded to drop the anvil on Clay's head. "_But_ I need something in return," Jax said, his casual but fierce grin never making it to his icy blue eyes. He was going in for the kill. "_And_ it's non-negotiable."

As Jax started to outline his plan in great detail—one he had hatched in the last ninety seconds of their conversation—he watched with a sense of satisfaction as the color drained from the face of the greedy bastard he had always thought of as a father.

* * *

Lying on his back, Jax had his arm tucked under his head as he cradled his old lady against his naked chest with his other arm. In the darkness of their bedroom, Jax was staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes as he mulled over the first 24 hours of his life as a free man. It had certainly been anything but uneventful, not that he had expected any different. With so much game-changing shit happening, it felt more like an entire week had passed instead of just one day.

Starting with running into the new sheriff's welcome wagon in the middle of Main Street, Jax's day had segued into a much happier and long-anticipated but brief reunion with his family. With Clay resuming his role as the Club's President, they had quickly moved into their first official Church in 14 months where they discussed their meeting later that afternoon with Viktor Putlova at the Jellybean Lounge. Returning home, Jax was able to enjoy a brief respite before Opie's wedding by losing himself in Tara's arms after a long and frustrating sexual drought. Reconnecting physically and emotionally with his old lady had been good, soul-cleansing even.

Shit had taken a turn into the unexpected, however, when Tara had asked what his plans were for getting out of Charming, her tone suggesting that it was all but a done deal. After all, she had hoped that almost dying in prison had been the wake up call he needed since his son's kidnapping and the Salazar situation had failed in that regard. As much as Jax had hoped to delay having such a heavy discussion on his first night home, it was inevitable that Tara would bring up plans for leaving Charming and he couldn't get mad at her because of it. After all, that had been her plan for them since they were nineteen years old and not much had changed in the ten years they had been separated.

Although Jax would admit to briefly entertaining the thought of leaving SAMCRO as he lay bleeding on the cold concrete in Stockton Prison, reality had soon caught up with him once he was breathing on his own again. Outlaw was what he did best. In the ordinary world, Jax knew he was nothing more than just a so-so mechanic with a GED. Even if the Galindo gun deal enabled him to accumulate significant bank within a year, allowing him to give Tara what she wanted by leaving Charming in the rearview, the question still remained: Who the hell was Jax Teller without the Club?

It was with great regret that Jax soon realized that as much he loved Tara, he loved SAMCRO just as much, if not more. Worse yet, this fact was not lost on his old lady.

Although Jax felt that he had much to make up for after all Tara had been through with him and for all she had lost, the fact remained that if out was what she wanted so desperately, he had given her an out before going inside. As a matter of fact, after Abel's kidnapping, Jax had spent a considerable amount of time trying to push Tara away. He had gone as low as fucking porn star Ima, an absolute deal breaker in Tara's book, in his efforts to get her to leave Charming. By the time he had left for Belfast, Jax was sure that when he returned, he would find her gone. The thought killed him a little inside, but he was prepared to be okay with that. Tara, the savior of sick and dying babies, deserved a life less complicated, and he loved her enough to let her have it.

_But that had been before I knew she was pregnant_.

Once he had his son back in his arms, Jax realized that he couldn't let Tara and their unborn baby go anymore than he could Abel. But in the end, staying in Charming had put her in Salazar's crosshairs and had resulted in the devastating loss of the baby she had carried. Jax knew that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never forgive himself for the danger being with him had put Tara and his children in. Although she never spoke about what had happened, Jax knew that if given the opportunity, he would do what he could to make it up to her.

Except leave SAMCRO.

Jax had tried explaining his business plans that would enable the Club to shed its outlaw reputation, making life in the Club and in Charming that much safer, but he doubted she had heard any of it through her sobbing. Although in the end Tara had agreed to give him the time he needed to turn the Club around, their discussion had ended with Jax feeling a nagging sense of resistance from his old lady, almost like she was on the verge of saying something, but held herself back. It had been that hesitation on her part that had kept Jax from proposing.

Jax squeezed his eyes shut as he thought about the vintage engagement ring he had asked his mother to secure for him. At the moment, it was nestled in the inner breast pocket of his kutte instead of on his old lady's finger, and it bothered Jax on a deeply emotional level that that was the case. He tried justifying that fact to himself by thinking that maybe he was probably too much like JT, unable to really commit himself to one woman.

_Or maybe, deep down, I know Tara's not ready to commit to me, Abel __and__ the Club._

So until he could find the time to figure shit out, sort through all of the fuckin' noise in his head, Jax decided to table the idea of getting married again. He had already made the mistake of blindly making that commitment once. In order for it to work the second time around, Jax was going to make sure that they both knew what they were signing up for and then sticking to making it happen. So instead of trying to put a ring on it, Jax had spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the Main Event—finally extracting his pound of flesh from Putlova and the ROC at his best friend's wedding reception.

Jax had watched as Clay had taken the first shot, taking out one of Putlova's guards as Happy dispatched the other from behind, slicing a knife across the man's throat before he could make the move to grab his sidearm. The satisfaction that Jax had felt as he stalked towards Putlova and repeatedly plunged his KA-BAR into the man's gut had been anything but "just business". It was all personal, down to the wad of spit he had tossed on the dying man before he casually strode away, leaving the Prospects behind to bury the bodies.

By washing away old injuries with blood, this one event was the catalyst that set Jax on the course of finally putting his plan to save his father's dying Club into motion. But as was par for the course when one lived the Life, one shit or another was always on the brink of going sideways. The following morning just proved that to Jax at their introductory meeting with Galindo representatives Romero "Romeo" Parada and his associates. He and Clay had gone to Oakland to get the ball rolling on the Club's new venture with the Cartel. Blindsided by an unexpected twist had nearly sent Jax into a tailspin. However, like his President, Jax had taken the new deal and twisted it to give him the advantage over Clay.

Muling drugs for the Galindo Cartel was the absolute last thing that Jax wanted SAMCRO into. After all, his ex-wife's drug addiction had nearly caused the death of his prematurely born son. Despite the fact that gun running was no cleaner a crime than trafficking drugs, preying on people with addictions that could bring otherwise rational human beings down into the gutter was particularly vile to the outlaw.

Looking down at Tara's soft, dark hair, he absently stroked it with his ringed fingers and wondered how he was going to break the news that in addition to gun running with the added risk of dealing high-powered weapons, he was now about to embark on a life as a fuckin' drug runner to boot!

There were no longer any doubts in Jax's mind. The Sons of Anarchy had lost their way. What had seemed like a lost cause after going into Stockton had flipped on him in less than a day back home. For the first time since finding his father's manuscript, Jax felt like he was making some steps in the right direction. He grinned mirthlessly as he recalled the look of shock on Clay's face as he laid out his demands. The older outlaw had not seen it coming, which was why the impact had hit him particularly hard. Clay minced no words in making it clear to Jax that he felt betrayed. Jax himself was amazed that he had managed to walk away from the exchange intact after dropping his demands on Clay.

Jax finally decided to keep the fact that SAMCRO was now muling coke from his old lady, at least for the time being. If the first twenty-four hours of freedom had been a rough ride, the next twenty-four were going to test Tara in ways he wasn't sure she was prepared to handle. Jax knew what her reaction to the drugs would be, but he also knew that Tara was going to have to suck it up and get in line with everyone else who would give him and Clay shit about this new move. After all, Tara knew where the endgame would take them. Even though they wouldn't be leaving Charming, Jax's goal was to provide his family with a stable and financially secure future.

Having made the decision to not run away from his responsibilities, to stay and save his Club, Jax knew that he would not be able to pull it off alone. Jax winced in the darkness as he thought about his brother from another mother. Opie Winston had been his best friend since birth and Jax knew he was doomed to failure without him by his side. But SAMCRO's gentle giant had already been asked to sacrifice too much for his brothers. The nickel Ope had served in Chino thanks to Kyle Hobart had almost killed his marriage. Clay's paranoid distrust of Opie, thanks to the treacherous ATF bitch June Stahl, had cost Donna Winston her life.

Although Jax had promised his brother that one day they would eventually run the Club, bringing it back to what had been JT's and Piney's original vision, Jax knew the journey to that point wasn't going to be an easy one. Aside from Opie, Jax needed to call upon another brother who could help him make the hard choices and whose only loyalty was to the Club.

Realizing that it was almost four o'clock in the morning, Jax closed his eyes. Falling asleep would never happen if he didn't at least try to still his thoughts. He was going to need as much rest as he could get. In a few short hours, Clay was going to drop the bomb of the Son's obligation to run drugs for the Galindo Cartel. If Jax was successful in swaying the majority to back the deal, an old era would be coming to an end as a new one would begin.

For the sake of everything Jax loved—his son, his old lady, his family, and his Club—he could only hope that he and his brothers made it through the next twenty-four hours in one piece.

* * *

_**Monday, April 12, 2010**_

Sitting at the far end of the Redwood table, Happy sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed his brothers. The atmosphere in the Chapel was grim at best and considering the level of craziness they were operating at, the outlaw biker was hard-pressed not to wonder if SAMCRO had set itself on a course of self-destruction. Or maybe, the Club was just in the process of collectively losing its fuckin' mind.

Happy never thought he'd long for the simplicity of his days in Stockton as, home for only a couple of days, it seemed like he and his brothers had fallen right back into a big pile of bad shit. Or maybe, it was just business as usual for the MC.

_Who the fuck knows anymore?_ Happythought sourly.

Just the day before, Clay had delivered the stunning news that, without the Club's knowledge or consent, the gun deal he had brokered with the Galindo Cartel came with some seriously twisted strings attached.

The mother charter was about to branch out into drug running for the Cartel.

Even now, after having born witness to the troubles the Club has had to deal with the last couple of years first-hand, Happy was still having trouble wrapping his head around just how they had ended up in such predicament. In the over forty years of its existence, the Sons of Anarchy had made it a point of steering clear of drugs. Some of their greatest beefs with other crews like the Mayans and the Nords had festered over SAMCRO's resistance against allowing the drug trade through or within the borders of Charming.

Needless to say, the revelation that the Club would now dabble in the drug business had not gone over well with some sitting at the table. It didn't matter that the Cartel was dangling a big fat carrot in the form of an additional $100K every two weeks as payment for trafficking thirty kilos of cocaine. And it certainly hadn't come as a surprise to Happy that one of the Club's founding members, Piney Winston, had been the most vocal opponent to the newly proposed business venture.

"If I remember right, and I know I do," Piney directed at Clay, his voice a deep growl. "You resisted SAMCRO venturing into porn. You called it a dirty business."

"That was different—" Clay started in his own defense, but was interrupted by Piney's meaty fist slamming onto the Reaper table.

"The hell it is! Drugs are way goddamn dirtier!" Piney bellowed down the table. "You're stupid and delusional if you think we'd be working _with_ the Cartel. We'd be working _for_ them and when that relationship stops producing results, all we'll get out of it is quick passage to an unmarked grave."

The old and ornery biker wasn't the only one at the table opposed to the idea of muling drugs for Galindo. What surprised Happy, however, was just who turned out to be Clay's most ardent supporter: Jax Teller. Considering the hell the young VP had endured since the birth of his son, Happy would have bet his Harley that Jax would have been quite vocal in his opposition. Instead, Jax surprised everyone at the table by voicing his support. Listening to Jax's level-headed and impassioned plea for his brother's to do the same had made an impression on most who had initially opposed the idea, including Happy.

After being given only less than half a day to consider the deal, Church had been called to order as the sun had started to set that evening. Clay had called for the vote and the agreement to mule coke had been voted in by a very narrow margin. Now that the die had been cast, all Happy could think about was whether or not a divided Club would be able to survive this hurdle intact.

Happy refocused his gaze on Clay as he cleared his throat. With the most crucial vote in the Club's recent history finally over, Happy was anticipating that his President would slam the gavel down, calling an end to Church. He sure as fuck was looking forward to being the first out of the door as he made a beeline straight to the bar as he had a sudden urge for a really stiff drink.

Reading Clay's tense body language, Happy's brow furrowed as he got the feeling that there was some more shit about to drop, and for some reason, he suspected that muling for a drug cartel wasn't the worst of it. It would soon become clear just how much Clay's decision to commit the Club to a venture out of their wheelhouse would impact Happy personally.

Clay held the gavel in his right hand as he twirled it around slowly in his fingers before speaking. "There's one more piece of business that needs tending to tonight," Clay said quietly, his voice hovering over the group of outlaws, his next words sending palpable shockwaves around the room. "We need to vote in a new President."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Monday, April 12, 2010**_

"What the fuck, Clay?" Juice's normally modulated tenor voice literally squeaked with shock as Clay's announcement reverberated throughout the Chapel. The young intelligence officer wasn't the only one taken by surprise by the stunning declaration.

Sitting at the far end of the table next to Piney, Happy looked around the room, taking in the expressions of amazement on the rugged faces of his brothers as they muttered epithets and eyed one another in confusion. Happy's face was impassive, however, and betrayed nothing as he rubbed the light stubble on his chin.

_The only brother not surprised seems to be our VP_, Happy contemplated as he noted the straight and purposeful set of Jax's shoulders.

An air of confidence and authority literally radiated off of him as Jax casually reached out to pluck his lit cigarette from the ashtray in front of him. Not only was Clay's proclamation no surprise to him, but it seemed to be an eagerly anticipated development for the young man. With Jax wielding the gavel—as there was no doubt in Happy's mind who was next in line—a new era was about to begin for SAMCRO.

However, there was one brother in particular who seemed unable to process what he had just heard. Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, Tig Trager—who had been cutting his fingernails with a small knife—had been caught so off guard that the knife had slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the Redwood table.

Finally capable of speech once again, Tig opened his mouth and asked with wonder, "Brother, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that it's time for me to step down," Clay said evenly, his steely blue eyes meeting Tig's. Although he said the words with much feeling and conviction, it was probably the hardest admission Clay had ever had to make in his life.

Clarence Morrow had been President of the mother charter as well as National President of the Sons of Anarchy since the death of John Teller in 1993. At the time he had assumed the presidency, the Sons had been in the middle of a brutal two-year war with the Mayans, not the most perfect of conditions under which to implement a regime change. But Clay had not only taken the helm, he had expertly navigated the Club successfully, bringing an end to the war and getting their gun running business back on schedule. Less than a year later, as SAMCRO started to prosper once more, Clay found himself the happiest he had ever been, married to his best friend's widow as together they finished raising JT's son.

Of course, in the years that followed, there had been other beefs with other crews, arrests and time to be served, and brothers and old ladies to bury. By getting the mother charter through the good times as well as bad intact, Clay had become an indomitable force in his own right. With his success as President, Clay continued to build the Sons of Anarchy into a legacy that would one day be passed over to Jax.

That day had come sooner than expected because that time was _now_.

Relinquishing his right to lead the MC was a bitter pill to swallow for Clay, but a combination of circumstances—some of his own making—was forcing his hand. While part of him was willing to step aside, mainly the pain in his hands, there was his more aggressive nature that fiercely fought against it. Unfortunately, Clay wasn't in a position to fight for his seat. God only knew the thumping he'd have to take from Jax if he reneged on their agreement.

_A deal is a deal_, Clay thought cynically. Not at all happy with how it all went down between the two of them the day before, Clay couldn't help but be proud of his son for turning the tables on him. _After all, he did learn from the master_.

And so Clay addressed his Club with a modified version of the truth as to why now was the time for the new change in leadership.

"The simple fact, boys, is that this last trip inside took a bigger toll on me than even I expected," Clay raised his huge hands for emphasis. "These arthritic pieces of shit I call hands have been steadily deteriorating on me for years. Fourteen months without the cortisone I needed didn't help much either. Luckily for me, my old lady is always on the ball and had Tara track down some surgeon who might be able to help with some bullshit experimental surgery. We all know I would have to step down anyway while I recovered. This transition could have been temporary under ordinary circumstances, but with this Cartel deal, temporary is not an option. The Club needs someone who can handle the hard shit, and right now, I have no doubt that it should be Jax who sits in this chair," Clay grinned. "But just because I'm stepping aside, doesn't mean I'm down and out, shitheads. These old hands still have plenty of life in 'em. As long as I can ride as required by the by-laws, I can vote and I have every intention of continuing to be a major fuckin' pain in the ass around here."

Clay settled back in his chair as his brothers laughed, watching them carefully for their true reactions. From what he could see, while there was much sympathy on their faces for his current predicament, there was also an unexpected air of anticipation and hope. With new blood running an organization as old as the Sons, only time would tell if Clay had made the right decision in an effort to save the Cartel deal.

"Now, Jax and I had a long talk about him taking up the gavel. I know he's ready and eager to lead his brothers into a new era of prosperity. Considering how he handled the Jimmy O situation for the Irish and our own shit with the ATF, I know he can handle whatever shit comes his way, as long as he gets the support he needs from us. Unlike the vote on the Galindo deal, I see no need to sit on this, so if someone is willing to second my nomination, I propose we do this shit right here and now," Clay finished.

From the far end of the table, Clay saw the huge hand of his sponsor fly high into the air. "I second that fuckin' motion," Piney Winston said with emotion as he looked directly at Jax.

Clay nodded, not at all surprised that Piney was so quick to raise his hand. "All those in favor, say aye," Clay said as he watched stoically. As an immediate chorus of 'ayes' came from all around the table, Clay noted that the last brother to add his voice was his SAA.

Looking at his son, Clay managed a wide shit-eating grin. "Then let's give a proper welcome to our new President." Both he and Jax stood up and with much joy, Clay embraced the young man he had brought up as his own. As the room erupted in hoots, applause and stamping feet, Clay rested his hand on Jax's broad shoulders. "I love you, son. _Always_ remember that."

* * *

Watching his brothers celebrate around the table as he loudly clapped his hands and whistled, Happy knew that had JT been alive he would have been really proud of his boy. He also knew Clay long enough to know that giving up his seat could not have been an easy move for him, but change had been a long time coming and Happy couldn't think of a better time for it to take place.

Although the former Tacoma Killer had only been patched back into the mother charter a few weeks before going into Stockton, he had heard through the MC grapevine that Clay and his VP had repeatedly butted heads over a number of Club-related issues. Even though Happy admired Jax Teller for his brains as well as his brawn, he wasn't blind to Jax's own set of shortcomings. The young patch could be arrogant, headstrong and, on occasion, reckless, but no one could say that Jax didn't eat, drink and sleep SAMCRO. Born into the MC world, outlaw was all Jax knew and he wasn't just good. He excelled at it.

Book smart like JT, Jax had the innate ability to see shit outside the box and was a master planner when it came to putting together schemes and scenarios. For that, Jax had his stepfather to thank, whether or not they ever saw eye to eye anymore. Now, watching as Jax took the gavel from his stepfather before Clay headed to the far end of the table to his new seat between him and Piney, Happy wondered what other changes were in store for the Club.

Lucky for some—and unlucky for others—he and his brothers were soon to find out.

* * *

As Jax slowly lowered himself into his stepfather's vacated seat and shifted to make himself comfortable, he looked at the satisfied smiles and nods of approval aimed in his direction and he suddenly felt a measure of relief.

The former VP had spent a sleepless night wondering just how this new turn of events would be received. It was more than very likely that he would not be sitting at the head of the table had the vote to mule the drugs for the Cartel had not passed. That had been the deal he had made with Clay the day before after their meeting with Romeo Parada. If Clay wanted the cushy nest egg that trafficking drugs would all but guarantee him, then he had to agree to step down as the MC's President. Only then would Jax agree to capitalize on his influence with his brothers to make sure that the vote swung in favor of the Cartel deal.

Jax recalled the look of shock on Clay's face when he had presented him with the proposition. In spite of the fact that Jax had said that his terms were non-negotiable, Clay had resisted, looking for a compromise he hoped that they could both live with. Jax, however, refused to back down. Like the Galindo deal itself, it was all or nothing.

Jax knew that in order to affect any real change in the Club, he was going to need the power of the gavel backing him up. Once he got SAMCRO out of the Cartel deal, the plan was to get them out of gun running as well and into a more legitimate way to earn once and for all. Just like JT had planned before he lost himself in Irish pussy.

Like any leader worth his salt, however, Jax knew his limitations. He wasn't so arrogant as to believe that he could implement such a radical change all by himself. He needed back up.

Putting the gavel down on the Redwood table, Jax eyed each of his brothers with purpose before he started to speak. "I know this shit probably came out of the fuckin' blue for everyone. All my thoughts over the last fourteen months were solely focused on one purpose: getting the fuck out of Stockton alive—"

"I heard that shit!" Bobby exclaimed, grinning.

"—and we did, but we have the Cartel deal to thank for that. Believe me, I know that working with Galindo is not gonna be an easy ride, but we're more than capable and certainly smart enough to run this shit under the radar and earn big for the Club," he paused, taking a moment to light a cigarette before continuing. "I also know what can happen if shit goes sideways. You cross a Mexican drug cartel and they won't be picky about who they go after—you, your old ladies, children, parents—but being as we're already in this shit, we have to see it through. While we do that, I'm gonna work on coming up with an endgame that will steer us clear of the Cartel, but it's going to take some time."

For Herman Kozik, his past history with drug addiction made the decision to support Clay and Jax a difficult one. He had conceded and voted for the deal only because, as Jax had stated, they were already in neck deep with the Cartel. Now his new President was making promises about getting them out of the drug trade and he wanted to believe with all his heart that he would. "How long we talking, Pres?" Kozik asked, his deep interest evident to all at the table.

"I can't give you an honest answer, bro, not until we actually start running the guns and coke," Jax replied, looking Kozik in the eye. "Our first order for hardware will be delivered to the Cartel in four weeks. We need to bring that shipment down from Canada and keep it stashed in a safe place before transport to its final destination in Tucson. Evaluating how that first transfer goes is a good place to start," he explained. "In a couple of months, I think we'll be in a better position to see shit from all angles. Brothers, we may have rushed into this deal blind, but if we want to get out of this whole, we need to follow the Club motto on this—_brains before bullets_."

Watching his brothers' reaction as he outlined his strategy, Jax felt a minor sense of accomplishment. Barring any serious shit storms, it seemed as if his brothers were receptive, including Piney. _That all may change in the next few minutes_, Jax thought as he steeled himself to drop a couple of serious organizational bombs that would greatly impact the Club going forward.

"In order to get shit done, I need back up," Jax said, and turning to his right, addressed his best friend. "Ope, as kids we dreamt of running the Club one day and we swore we would work hard to strengthen the brotherhood, making it as strong, if not stronger, than our fathers before us. It's no secret, bro, that I need you by my side to keep my reactive and explosive tendencies at bay and keep me focused on the tasks at hand. Basically, I need you to keep me from losing my shit. This chair to my left is yours, if you want it."

Opie nodded slowly. "Hell's yeah, I want it, brother," he said, beaming from ear to ear. "You know I'm here for you."

As Jax nominated his son as his new VP, with Bobby quickly seconding the motion, Piney sat back in his chair proudly as his brothers voted Opie in unanimously. He couldn't help but smile widely as his son rose from his chair to meet his best friend at the head of the table in a back-slapping bro-hug.

_Fuck, tell me I'm about to weep like a fuckin' little bitch_, Piney coughed to disguise the furtive dashing of a couple of fugitive tears.

As the co-founder of the Club, Piney had been the most vocal opponent of the deal with the Cartel. He didn't buy Clay's bullshit reason for agreeing to the muling. Just like with the gun running, trafficking coke for a band of dirty wetbacks had been all about the money for Clay. Piney's gut had twisted into angry knots as his brothers fell one by one, succumbing to the cunning manipulation of the then-president. Piney had sure as shit been hard-pressed not barf the contents of his stomach, but that would have been a sinful waste of premium tequila.

Now that the Club would be run by his best friend's son as well as his own, it remained to be seen whether under the new management the Club would be able to pull itself out of this dirty deal without suffering further internal damage. Piney, however, had no problem using his close relationship with Jax and Opie to get them moving on getting the Club out of this shitty situation sooner rather than later.

* * *

Happy's smile—a rather large grimace to most people who didn't know him—was wide as he watched the two younger men embrace. Although not surprising, having Opie back him up was a smart move on Jax's part. In spite of the shit Opie had endured in recent years, he remained the ying to Jax's yang. Level-headed, loyal and smart, Opie also had the capability of being a strong Man of Mayhem when the situation called for it.

Thinking that with all the new changes the Club had just undergone, Happy was hoping that Church was about to wrap for the night. He was looking forward to downing more than just a couple of drinks as it was inevitable that a party would break out. They certainly deserved one and finishing out the evening with a couple of croweaters sounded pretty fuckin' good to him right about now.

But partying would have to wait a bit longer as there was one more change coming that would literally shock the hardened one-percenter to his very core.

After motioning for Opie to take his seat, Jax remained standing. _Time to drop the final bomb_, he thought grimly.

"I know that today has been pretty fuckin' intense. A lot of shit has been dropped on all of you tonight and these changes will affect the Club significantly going forward, but there's one more change I've decided to make. It's not an easy one, but I think it's absolutely necessary."

Turning to his right, Jax looked down into the cool blue eyes of the man that had served the Club as its Sergeant-at-Arms for 16 years. "Tig, you've served as SAA ever since Clay took over after my father died. You were always at his side, protecting him and the Club. I have no doubt that you will continue to do so, brother, in spite of the fact that things have changed radically. These are different times we're living in and, in restructuring the Club, I've decided that I need for you to step down."

Tig's eyes widened in a combination of rage and disbelief as he ran heavily-ringed fingers across his goatee. "What the fuck, Jax? You can't be serious, bro."

"But I am," Jax said soberly. Everyone started murmuring quietly to each other as they watched the suddenly bristly exchange unfold. "Look, Tig, this is in no way a reflection on you or what you've done for the Club. It's nothing personal—"

"The fuck it ain't!" Tig blurted as waves of anger washed over him. "One fuckin' minute at the head of the goddamn table—" About to jump out of his chair to vigorously protest what he perceived as Jax's sorely lacking judgment, Tig caught the look of his now-former president was angrily flashing at him. After being close friends for many years, Tig could clearly read Clay's intent in his steely blue eyes.

_Sit the fuck down and shut up before I kick your ass!_

So out of respect for their longtime friendship, Tig Trager collected himself before nodding his head. "It's your call, brother," he conceded.

"Yeah, it is," Jax replied curtly. Turning away from Tig, his blue eyes fell on his next target. "Hap, can you come here, please?" he asked quietly.

Happy couldn't have been more surprised had Jax asked him to suck him off. Hiding his astonishment behind his usual scowl, he eyed Tig before he stood and walked around the table to his new President.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his kutte, Jax pulled out a small black and white patch that read Sergeant-at-Arms. Holding it out to him, Jax looked his brother straight in his nearly black eyes. "Will you serve _the Club_, brother?"

Nodding slowly at first, the bald-headed patch allowed a fierce smile to slowly creep over his features. Taking the patch from Jax's palm, Happy said proudly, "I live, I love, I kill for my family." As the two men hugged one another, Opie watched from his new position and approved.

After learning of the part that Clay and Tig had played in Donna's death, Opie had found it difficult to sit at the table. With both men now relinquished of their positions of power, for the first time in a very long time Opie felt like he could revive his dormant love for the brotherhood. Knowing Jax, he realized that his brother had known that it would be far too difficult for him to work with Tig as his SAA. With Happy on board, Opie knew that there would be a period of adjustment to be made, but he also knew that the older man's deep love for the Club would keep both him and Jax well-grounded.

When the two brothers broke apart amidst the clapping and wolf whistles, Opie interjected with a huge grin, "Seems like a vote on that shit is totally un-fuckin'-necessary so, as my first duty as VP, I am advising my President to slam that gavel down so we can get the party started!"

Jax picked up the gavel and smiled almost wickedly at his brother. "Sounds like you're already thinking like an officer," he said before slamming the gavel down forcefully.

* * *

As classic rock played on the jukebox, scantily-clad croweaters made the rounds handing out beers, shots and blow jobs to patches and hang-arounds alike. Everyone was in a good mood as the impromptu party broke out to celebrate the installation of the new officers of the Sons of Anarchy.

_Almost everyone_, Bobby mused as he watched Tig sulkily sitting at one of the tables with a croweater on his lap.

Tig, he noticed, wasn't paying all that much attention to the buxom brunette even though she was one of his absolute favorites. Instead, he was gazing at the amber liquid as he ran a ringed middle finger around the rim, lost in deep thought. Finally picking up the glass, Tig downed the four fingers of his favorite whiskey before getting up from his seat and hoisting the now-squealing croweater over his shoulder. Making a beeline for his dorm, Tig didn't hesitate in snatching away from Miles the blonde porn star he had spent most of the night talking up.

Bobby chuckled, sipping his drink as the new patch nearly pouted at being relieved of the honey with the tight body and big juicy lips. _Shit, those two pussies are in for a hell of a trip with a pissed off Tigger._

Although he felt a measure of sympathy for the way things had worked out for his brother, Bobby had not been at all surprised. Still, Bobby couldn't help but wonder if Jax had made the right call in making the change so soon after being appointed. It was no secret that there had been some animosity between the now-former VP and the now-former SAA in the past, but Bobby was sure that rift had been healed while in lock up.

As one of the few that had opposed the drug aspect of the Cartel deal and despite how the vote had gone through, Bobby couldn't have been happier when Jax assumed the presidency. It was the boy's destiny to be the Club's next leader and Bobby was putting his faith that, in spite of the Club's current situation, Jax would rise to the challenge and lead in the same manner as his old man.

Finally seeing an opportunity as several of the hang-arounds cleared away from the new president sitting at the bar, Bobby grabbed two shots of whiskey before joining his young brother. Handing him a glass, Bobby slapped a meaty hand on Jax's back. "It's a good thing, brother, and I'm so fuckin' glad I got to live to see it, too."

Jax grinned as he looked at the pot-bellied, shaggy-haired man. "You sure about that? Even after how the Cartel vote went down?"

"_Especially_ after how that vote went down, brother," Bobby replied before throwing back his drink and slamming the shot glass on the bar. Noting the reflective gaze on Jax's face, he caught his eye and nodded at one of the empty tables. Grabbing a bottle of Jack and their glasses, the two men headed over to sit down. "Don't you feel like it's a good thing?" Bobby continued their conversation.

"I do," Jax allowed with a nod. "But it's already obvious that this shit ain't gonna be easy."

"Nothing worth doing ever is, son," Bobby replied as he refilled their glasses. "Especially after the move you made with Tig."

"It had to happen," Jax said, his tone adamant. "I'm not making this shit personal, Bobby. I have to be objective and do what's right for the Club, and right now, Tig watching my back ain't it." As Bobby opened his mouth to interrupt, Jax continued. "I love Tig. He's a good patch who loves the Club," he paused. "He just loves Clay _more._"

Bobby nodded soberly. "There may be some truth in that."

"Let's not fool ourselves here, bro. There's _a lot_ of truth in that. Tig has been Clay's right hand man, with you being on his left, a hell of a lot longer than me. I don't blame you for that. I know you have a long history with Clay, but you don't let that get in the way of doing what's right for the Club. Clay knows that when he needs to hear the truth, he comes to you. When he wants someone to be a good little soldier and back his every play without question, he goes to Tig. I can't afford to have someone like that watching my back. It's dangerous—for me and for the Club."

"I can see that, but—"

"No 'buts', bro. The bottom line is, after all the shit that's gone down, I can't trust Tig to be loyal to just the Club. He's backed too many of Clay's bad plays without the knowledge of those sitting at the table and shit went deep south. Did you even know that Tig was aware that muling drugs was a big part of the deal with Galindo before anyone else was, including myself?"

"Shit, no!" Bobby breathed. "When?"

"Clay downloaded on him while we were in Stockton. With Tig's full support, it gave him the confidence he needed to agree to the muling even before the Club voted on it. Trust me, had I known about this shit while in Stockton, there's no way it would have gone through without a vote first," Jax insisted.

Bobby ran his hand over his bushy chin hair in contemplation. "So handing over the Pres patch was the price Clay had to pay for getting you on board with the Cartel deal?" he inquired.

Jax shook his head. "It wasn't like that, Bobby. Clay had no endgame in sight. With his bad hands, this shit would have fallen on my shoulders at some point anyway and I figured there was no time like the present. With the best of intentions, Clay made a bad call and with the money we'll be raking in, I just didn't see Galindo going away anytime soon with him at the head of the table. I can't trust that Clay had any intention of getting us out of muling and Tig was just a casualty of that. The last thing we need is to have an SAA go rouge, his loyalties split between two presidents. You know I'm right."

Looking at the serious expression on his President's face, Bobby had to agree. _The boy is really trying to get on top of this shit_, he thought with admiration.

"Yeah, I do, brother. I've known both Tig and Hap a long time, and let's face it, there ain't another patch more capable than Happy of watching that broad fuckin' back of yours," he conceded.

"Best part is that I _know_ Hap's first priority is protecting the Club. With that kind of loyalty watching my back, I can trust that he will keep me from overstepping boundaries when it comes to the laws that govern this Club," Jax explained. "SAMCRO's not a kingdom, Bobby. We're a democratic organization. Clay forgot that for a minute."

"I get it," Bobby Elvis replied, his head bobbing up and down. "Tigger, on the other hand, ain't taking it too well."

Jax shrugged and his eyes turned into hard blue marbles. For the first time, Bobby saw a different man inside the kutte. "Tigger has no choice but to toe the line. I _will_ have a problem with him if he stirs shit up with Clay at the table."

"You think he will?" Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

"I know Clay's gonna have a hard time letting go," Jax replied as he poured two more shots. "He's been at the head of the table for a long, long time. If Clay should come to regret his decision of stepping down, with Tig for back up, shit could get seriously twisted. For Tig's sake, however, they better not."

"Meaning?" Bobby chuckled a little apprehensively.

Jax smiled coldly. "Meaning that the SAA patch won't be the only one I strip from him," he replied, his tone deadly serious. "I'll transfer his ass to another charter."

* * *

"Just how is it that _I'm_ the last fuckin' one to know shit around here?" Gemma complained as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Now that the change of leadership was a done deal, Clay had been left with the duty of breaking the news to his old lady. He left the celebration in a hurry, barely stopping long enough for a celebratory drink before heading to his bike. Hoping that his arthritic mitts didn't fail him, Clay headed straight home knowing that if his old lady heard the news from someone not him, his ass would be ground into meat for the neighbor's dog.

"Now, baby, you know that's not true," Clay replied as he wrapped his arms around her waist. "You're not the last, and certainly not the least."

Standing in the Morrow's kitchen wearing nothing but a black robe and her favorite bedroom slippers, Gemma Teller-Morrow eyed her husband with extreme irritation.

"Don't think you can sweet talk my ass, Clay," she warned. As the occupant of the large ornate bird cage sitting on the counter dividing the kitchen from the dining room squawked loudly, Gemma turned around to give the bird the hairy eyeball. "Not you, asshole, _this_ Clay," she said as her old man shook his head in amused bafflement.

"I still can't believe you named that damn bird after me," he said with no little amount of irritation.

"After Cheney died while you were inside, I needed company. Since I missed talking to your grumpy ass, I figured why not? But right now," she turned and stabbed Clay in the shoulder with a French-manicured index finger, "I'm not interested in talking about the fuckin' bird. I'm dying to hear how you're going to talk yourself out of handing the Club over to my son with me only hearing about it _now_."

_Shit, I knew she was gonna be difficult_, Clay thought as he looked into her stormy brown eyes.

"It happened all of thirty minutes ago, Gem. In order to hear about it any sooner, you would have been sitting at the fuckin' table," Clay replied. _You know, like you think you already do. _As his woman gave him the fish eye, Clay sighed and ran a hand over his silver hair. "Look, baby, things just kind of happened is all."

"Just happened, huh?" Gemma focused narrowed eyes on her target. "You just _happened_ to decide to give up the gavel at Church tonight?" It just wasn't adding up for Gemma.

_Not voluntary, sweetheart_, Clay thought wearily.

Trying a different approach, Clay replied, "You know, for a proud mama bear, I thought you would be over the fuckin' moon about this shit."

"I am, baby, I am."

In fact, Gemma was more than pleased. Inwardly, she was doing fuckin' back flips down Main Street. But as happy as she was about this new development, Gemma could see deep in her old man's eyes that he wasn't. It was for the sake of his fragile male ego that she tempered her response by being snarky and nitpicky.

Gemma was no fool, however, and saw the need to tone it down a little, afraid of overplaying grabbing her old man's hand in her own, Gemma pulled Clay to her. Clutching his hand to her chest, she squeezed it lightly.

"I know the man I married, Clay," Gemma stated softly, "enough to know that this can't be an easy thing for you to do. I thought you said there was still time, at least a couple of years before you would have to step down."

_I did!_ Clay thought, but the last thing he was going to admit to his old lady was that he had—to some extent—been outmaneuvered by Jax.

"Baby, now just seemed like the right time."

"So what does this all mean for you?"

Clay shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing that really matters has changed. I'm still entitled to my finder's fee and percentage of all the gun business. My hands aren't done for yet, so as long as I keep riding I still have a vote, and even though Jax is calling the shots, I don't see that there will be any internal conflicts. It's his Club now and I am confident in the man _I raised_. _I_ made him and my son knows what he's doing," Clay grinned. "He's enough like me to know how to maneuver shit to work to his advantage. I taught him well," he said with a hint a pride.

"Yes you did," Gemma grinned back. "Do you recall what I said to you a while back?"

Clay bent over to kiss her hand. "What, baby?"

"That one day Jackson would take over the Club, but only by following _the right father's footsteps_," she said quietly. "He has, you know. You do realize that, don't you?"

"I do," Clay nodded nostalgically. "He sure as shit was a real handful as a kid, though. There were plenty of times I didn't think Jax and I would survive the experience. I was never really cut out to be a father, you know."

"I know that's what you believed," Gemma started. "It should be clear to you by now, Clay. That shit wasn't true."

Gemma sighed inwardly. _What a twisted history we've had together—me, JT and Clay_. In spite of all the shit storms they had faced, in the end everything worked out the way it needed to. The only way that mattered.

"Well, I hope those mitts of yours are up for one more ride tonight," Gemma suddenly announced. "I am going upstairs to thrown on my glad rags and you are taking me to the Clubhouse so I can officially congratulate the new President—my son—in person."

"I guess I can manage one more ride," Clay allowed somewhat weary.

"And when we get home," Gemma said slyly, "I'll treat you to a different kind of ride," she winked at him.

"Oh, hey now," Clay said suavely as her meaning became clear.

_I guess I get to celebrate too!_

* * *

Tara ran a trembling and agitated hand through her sleep-tousled hair. "Why is it that I always believe you when you say shit is going to work out?" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Because I meant what I said when I said it, Tara," Jax replied tersely as he focused his eyes on his clearly angry old lady. "It's not like I planned for shit to go down this way," he said evenly, trying to keep a rein on his growing temper.

Tara laughed out loud derisively, causing Jax to narrow his eyes at her. Taking a deep breath to control her fit of near-hysterical laughter, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the kitchen counter. "Please, like you never planned on taking over the Club, Jax. Feed that line of bullshit to one of those stupid club whores always hanging around," she retorted, her angry eyes boring holes into her old man.

Jax's jaw clenched, refusing to let Tara bait him into turning their conversation into a bitter confrontation. "I did what needed to be done. You're acting like this shit doesn't affect me too," he said evenly, the strain to control his anger clearly audible in his voice.

"It _does_ affect you! It's all about you, Jax! _You're_ finally getting what you've always wanted since you were five years old. The gavel to go along with that fuckin' kutte on your back!" she screamed, the sudden urge to just slam her head repeatedly against the nearest wall nearly overwhelming her.

_And I'm the one that get's screwed! Again!_

"Babe," Jax started coldly. "I know I just sprung this shit on you, so I'm gonna cut you some slack, but you're gonna want to throttle back on the attitude just a bit."

Capping off a long day at St. Thomas with an emergency surgery just as she was about to walk out the door, Tara had come home late that evening to relieve Elyda from babysitting duty. After feeding, bathing and putting Abel to bed, she had taken a long shower, making the effort to sex herself up a little in anticipation of Jax's return from the Clubhouse. She had waited in vain for hours as it was now clear that Jax had been held back by the party that celebrated his installation as SAMCRO's newest President.

Tempted to rip her own hair out by the roots, Tara suddenly remembered telling Margaret Murphy earlier in the day that she would be staying in Charming after all. It was just a momentary change of plans, she had assured Margaret, saying that she was going to give Jax some time to take care of some business before she broached the subject of them leaving Charming together as a family. If he refused, she would drop an ultimatum of leaving with or without him. Of course, Margaret had been disappointed, especially after she had tracked Tara down to give her some good news. After three months of trying to find her a surgical position elsewhere, she had finally succeeded. _Three_ out-of-state and prestigious hospitals were very interested in Tara, the two she had asked Margaret to look into—one in Seattle and the other in Oregon—and a third on the East Coast in Boston.

The offer from Boston Children's Hospital had taken Tara by surprise. That had been her first choice for her residency, as it had been for hundreds of other doctors. Unfortunately, she didn't get an offer and ended up at Chicago Presbyterian instead. The thought of turning the offer down now had pained Tara, but that's exactly what she intended to do. She knew Margaret couldn't understand her sudden about face when it came to getting out of Charming. On some level, Tara couldn't understand it herself. This obsession she had with Jackson Teller should have died a natural death when she first left Charming. Trying to pick up where they had left off after she returned had only created more problems than it was probably worth.

Tara had fooled herself into thinking that once she had an offer from another hospital she would be able to leave Charming and Jax behind. And, maybe, if the offers had come before Jax's release from Stockton she would have been able to make the move. But now with Jax back in her life she hoped that he would finally wake up and realize that attempts to fix SAMCRO were futile at best and that he would agree to starting a new life together somewhere else. Now Tara realized that his earlier talk of leaving the Life had been a knee-jerk reaction to having come so close to dying in prison.

After learning that just one day out of Stockton and Jax had already altered their plans for the future, Tara now realized that she should have packed her bags then. Too macho to live off her salary, Jax had tried to convince her that, given enough time, he would be able to turn the Club away from outlaw and into more legitimate businesses. Tara had scoffed at his idea of reviving Cara Cara Studios because in her mind, peddling porn was just as bad as selling guns. But once again, Tara had fallen into the same trap with Jax by listening to her heart instead of her mind and believing him, choosing to support him in the hopes of being able to convince him later—once he failed miserably at legitimizing the MC—to leave the Life altogether.

Now barely two days later, without her knowledge or input, Jax had made the decision to take over the Club, throwing just another hurdle in the path of her exit strategy, all the while expecting her to just accept his bullshit.

_Not fuckin' likely!_

But facing the blue eyes that for the first time Tara could remember were staring at her coldly, she tried to get herself under control. Sitting down at one end of the kitchen table, Tara reached over to turn off the baby monitor sitting in front of her before she spoke. "What I can't understand," she started slowly, her voice low, "is _why_. Why would Clay step down now and why would you volunteer to take his place when you know how much I want out of here?"

Jax grabbed a chair from the kitchen table. Turning it around, he straddled it, his long legs stretched out before him. "Clay didn't step down willingly and I didn't volunteer to take the gavel. I _took_ it from him," he replied as he pulled out a pack of smokes and his lighter from his kutte, followed by a small black and white patch that read "PRESIDENT". Dropping it on the table, Jax lit a cigarette and blew out a trail of blue smoke before he started to fill his old lady in on the particulars.

Stunned that such a small scrap of material could have such a huge impact on her life, Tara stared blankly at the patch. She sat and listened passively, never making eye contact with her old man as he detailed how he had ended up at the head of the table. And _why_.

Jax watched, her lips trembling with emotion as Tara sat without comment until he was finished. Her head suddenly snapped up. "It's not enough that you're dealing bigger, more powerful guns, now the Club's going into the drug business, too?" she asked, horrified.

"We're not dealing, babe, just muling. Clay set it up in Stockton and it was the only way to secure the deal with the Cartel for the guns," Jax explained quietly. "The only way I can keep the Club protected—both from the ROC _and_ from the Cartel—is to go along with it. Clay was so focused on making an obscene amount of money with this deal that he had tunnel vision. He couldn't see a way out and didn't care to find one. I had to take over, Tara. The Club needs an exit strategy in place so that we can get out of this clean and whole. Once that's done and we've banked enough money, going legit is just a matter of—" Jax suddenly stopped as Tara shook her head violently.

"Don't sit here and think that I'm going to swallow another line of your bullshit, Jax. I DON'T BELIEVE YOU ANYMORE!" Tara ground out bitterly, the tears she had been holding back spilling down her cheeks. In shock, Jax's blue eyes met her dark green ones. "You don't want to leave the Club any more than your mother would want you to leave Charming. You never even consulted me before making the decision to takeover the Club. This decision affects me too and I have a right to a say—"

"No you don't," Jax's voice was suddenly dark and cold. "You are not a member of my Club. You're an old lady," he emphasized as he looked into her wide, troubled eyes. "_My old lady_, and I love you, Tara, but don't confuse me with Clay or JT. _I_ run this Club now, not Clay, not Gemma, _and not_ _you_. I let my Club die, a piece of me dies with it and that's not gonna happen. I'm gonna do whatever's necessary to get SAMCRO whole again. After, and only after, if it makes sense at the time, we'll revisit plans to leave Charming, but I ain't promising shit." Jax stood up, grabbed his cigarettes and his patch. He bent over and kissed Tara hard on the forehead before heading for the door. "You can either get on board with that or not, darlin', but this is the _only_ way it's gonna be."

* * *

**A/N: It's an Son-less Tuesday and I am too upset for words. How dare Kurt Sutter deprive me of my weekly fix?!**

**Anyway, I won't leave my loyal readers similarly abandoned. Although I won't be posting two chapters a week for much longer, I have a special bonus for you guys if you can rise to my beta WebStar's challenge. If I get at least 10 "detailed reviews" between now and Wednesday, I will post Chapter 10 tomorrow evening, and if I get at least 10 reviews to _that _chapter, I will post Chapter 11 on Friday. It's just my way of helping anyone suffering from SOA withdrawals this week make it until Episode 612—my story, of course, being a poor substitute for the original, but at least my peeps will be that much closer to Jax and Marlowe's first meeting. If you haven't figured it out by now, this is going to be a really slow burn, y'all.**

**As always, I appreciate all the love you have all shown me. Many thanks, Harlee.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

**A/N: Fourteen reviews! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!**

**Your detailed reviews have really made m****y**** and WebStar's day! Getting feedback from readers is very important to ****my**** muse and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling when people like the work and appreciate all the time and effort that goes into telling this story.**

**As promised, I'm post****ing**** another chapter today and I really hope you guys are going to like it. ****I look forward to reading your reviews and as an added incentive, ****I will post a ****THIRD**** chapter this Friday—just ****my way of thanking you all ****for being so special ****to me****. You are getting **_**this**_** close (½" between thumb and index finger) to the meeting of Jax and Marley!**

**Many thanks, Harlee**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Saturday, April 17, 2010**_

It was a surprisingly warm spring day when the hot, but breezy winds coming down the I-5 S blew Happy Lowman's ass into Bakersfield.

Coming down the wide stretch of highway, the sun was relentless as it beat down on the biker, its bright rays blocked by the dark protective riding glasses he wore. The blustery warm breeze provided no relief as sweat poured down Happy's back. After a long fourteen months in prison, however, he was relishing the freedom of being on the open road once again. Just him, his kutte, and his ride.

The run to Bakersfield was his first real opportunity to put some miles on his bike since his release and Happy was thoroughly enjoying getting reacquainted with his beloved Dyna. Of course, that is, after he spent a significant amount of time letting his dick get reacquainted with some Club pussy. With the cream of the SAMCRO crop locked up, the pickins' had been limited to mostly hang-arounds and Prospects and the croweaters had been chomping at the bit in order to get their hands on him and Tig.

Getting stuck running interference for Clay, Jax and Opie as they eluded the pigs on their way to rendezvous with Putlova, Happy had to put a temporary hold on getting his freak on. Afterward, however, all bets were off as he made a beeline back to the lot and dove face first into the welcome home pussy buffet over a year in the making.

Watching Happy with his arms full of croweaters, Herman Kozik had grinned wryly. "Don't go breaking your dick, brother. You still need to be able to ride."

"Oh, I'm gonna get plenty of riding done, bro," Happy growled through an evil smirk as he kneaded a plump ass encased in tight black leather pants. "These bitches are tired of making do with your California beach boy ass. They need someone to remind them what a real man tastes like."

Kozik shook his head, his response short and succinct. "Bite me," he smirked back as he flipped Happy the bird.

"You must have me confused with Tigger," Hap replied as he headed towards his dorm. "Catch you later, Kozy. _Way later_." The two croweaters he was hauling back to his room, a redhead and a blond, squealed with delight, eager to put an end to their fourteen-month Happy drought. Where the Unholy One lacked in romance and making small talk, he more than made up for in stamina and skill.

After his private party, Happy spent the next few days stripping down his bike, giving it a thorough cleaning and tune-up before reassembling it. Now, his ride was roaring like a fuckin' lion, intimidating the hell out of anyone who crossed its path.

Having lived the Life for so long, being cut off from what made him a biker was nothing new for Happy, who knew that making a return trip to the Pen was always a possibility. However, whenever he got out of the joint, Happy always had a newer appreciation for the life he had chosen for himself and, even though he always missed ridin', fuckin' and fightin' while locked up, it was the family he left behind in Bakersfield that he missed the most, which was why as soon as he got some downtime, he headed straight home.

Although it had been his intention to make a quick run to Bakersfield as soon as he was released, Club life had interceded and almost a week had passed. Opie's wedding on their first day out, bloody retaliation against the ROC, and numerous Club upheavals—the last of which had a huge impact on his life—had kept Happy preoccupied and prevented him from making it down to see his mother.

Taking a quick glance down at the right side of his kutte, Happy couldn't read the upside down words at the speed he was travelling but he knew they were there. After all, he had sewn on the patch that now sat proudly above the one that identified him as an Unholy One himself.

Happy had been a member of the Club for nearly 20 years and when he had patched in at 24, joining the Club that John Teller and Piney Winston had built had never been about getting rich, making a name for himself or even becoming an officer. It was the brotherhood and sense of family that had drawn him in. Over the years, Happy had managed to make a name for himself anyway, being dubbed the Tacoma Killer by his SAMTAC brothers, commemorating a number of gruesome deeds he had handled on their behalf. As a result, over the years, Happy had developed a reputation known throughout all the charters as one willing to do whatever was required, without hesitation, for his blood brothers. Doing some heinous shit had earned him not only the privilege of being patched as an "Unholy One", but had earned him the respect of his brothers and the fear of everyone else.

Now, he had been given the privilege of serving his Club and his President as Sergeant-at-Arms and, yet as proud as he was that Jax had seen fit to place that kind of trust in him, Happy couldn't help but feel for the brother he had replaced. As the road brought him ever closer to Bakersfield, Happy thought about his conversation with Tig after the wild party to celebrate the Club's new leadership.

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Tuesday, April 13, 2010**_

_Making his way through the piles of sprawled bodies littering the Clubhouse, Happy, wearing nothing but his boots, a pair of jeans and his kutte, stepped outside into the bright light of day. Surprisingly, despite considerabl_e_ effort on his behalf, his hangover wasn't bullet-in-the-head-worthy. Nonetheless, Happy wanted some fresh air despite the fact that the stale smell of liquor, weed and pussy permeating the Clubhouse always made him feel right at home. Stopping just outside the Clubhouse door, he saw Tig, sitting on top of the picnic table seemingly staring out into space._

_That they needed to talk was a no-brainer and Happy figured that, with the lot quiet and empty as it was still early, there was no time to do it like the present. Hey, if shit got out of control, they could always hop into the ring right behind them and get the healing started. It wouldn't be the first time and, if it happened, it wasn't likely to be the last either._

_Sauntering over, Happy held out the open pack of cigarettes and offered one to Tig, who took one without comment. Taking one himself, Happy lit his smoke and tossed Tig the lighter so he could do the same. He took a seat next to Tig and the two brothers sat in companionable silence for a while before the former-SAA finally spoke._

"_Last night, that was an interesting turn of events__," Tig said as he blew out a trail of smoke._

"_Yeah," Happy allowed. "It was." His dark eyes met his brother's fiercely blue ones. "You gonna be okay with that?"_

_Tig shrugged. "Don't really matter if I am or not. It's a done deal now, and I know why he did it," he sighed, referring to Jax. "But I guess if somebody had to take my patch, I'm glad it was you, bro," he said as he gazed directly into Happy's eyes. "I really mean that shit."_

_Seeing his brother's sincerity, Happy nodded. "I know you do, brother, and I ain't replacing you. Nobody could ever replace your crazy ass 'cause you know I draw the line at biting shit, right?" Happy grinned and Tig snorted with a measure of pride._

"_Yeah, you were always a bit girly about putting your mouth on another man. First rule of defense, use what you have available, so biting is totally fuckin' permissible and not a bitch move. I don't know why you don't get that shit," Tig complained as Happy laughed, the sound a cross between a chuckle and growl. _

_Finally stubbing out his cigarette, Happy slapped a hand on his brother's back. "All this change for the Club, it's a lot at one time, but I got to believe that Jax has the Club's best interest at heart. Even if," he wrinkled his face in disgust, "the boy insists on wearing sneakers instead of proper boots."_

_At that the two bikers eyed each other's footwear. Tig had on a pair black leather steel-toed riding boots he had custom-made in Encino. Happy's may have been a bit worn—what he liked to call "broken in"—but they were stylish as fuck, black leather embossed in a decorative python pattern. Both men grunted their approval at each other's gear._

_Tig ran a hand through his unruly hair and eyed his brother. "Look, I know the MC's his legacy and shit, but I've been handling shit for this Club for years—" he shrugged halfheartedly. "I just feel like I got spit on and told none of what I've done is worth dick in his eyes."_

_The fact was that, while Tig had always appreciated his ability to think outside the box, there were times where he wondered whether Jax had the stones to make decisions in an instant and do what was needed for the Club. Like his stepfather, to really get bloody. Tig's relationship with Clay had spanned decades and the two were really very much like brothers. Although Clay had put on a good show convincing the table that stepping away from the gavel had been an easy decision to make, Tig knew otherwise._

"_Bro, I wouldn't take it as a personal attack. Every man at that table has something to contribute, so just let your actions show that you support the Club __and__ stand by your President," Happy advised. "With the Cartel deal weighing heavy on the MC, we can't let internal beefs distract us. That happens, mistakes get made, shit slips through the cracks and people die."_

_Tig nodded in agreement. "__I hear you, brother."_

"_So we good?"_

_Tig made a "pffft" sound through pursed lips. "Get the fuck outta here, bro. You and me, we'll __always be tight, you know this." _

"_Good, 'cause I'm gonna need your ass as back up while I'm gone," Happy revealed._

_Tig raised an eyebrow. "Where you going?"_

"_Clay got word from the Irish last night. Kozik and Miles are heading up to Canada to pick up the merch and bring it down. With no insurance money to rebuild the warehouse, Jax and Clay are still working on securing a new storage site, so Jax asked if I could do the Club a solid," Happy explained. "I'm heading home for a few days to square shit away, but I don't like leaving my Pres unprotected. While I'm gone, I'm gonna need you to watch his back."_

_Tig stroked the hair on his chin and shook his head wryly. "Brother, I know you were there last night. The last place Jax wants me is behind him."_

"_Shows what little you know, asshole. Not __only did he clear it, but he said it was a good call."_

_The disbelief was heavy in Tig's voice, "Really?"_

"_I ain't shitting you, bro," Happy replied soberly._

_Well, maybe I am just a little__._

_As a matter of fact, it hadn't been at all easy convincing Jax that Tig would be all that willing to begin with. Happy figured that, in this situation, what either brother knew or didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them. Jax needed to know that Tig was still solid with the Club and Tig needed to have his ego stroked after the hit he'd suffered the night before. He could see by the now-relieved look in Tig's eyes that he had been right._

"_If that's what Jax really wants, you __know I'm there, Hap."_

"_He does. Just be the brother he already knows," Happy advised, "but pull back on the bat-shit crazy. I know it'll be all good." As they both got off the picnic table, Happy held out a hand to Tig and they bro-hugged it out. _

"_When you heading out, brother?" Tig asked as they pulled away._

"_In a few days. Jax is keeping my ass running. He wants me, Idiot and Bobby to scout out and buy the shit we're gonna need to build the shipping crates to transport the merch for the first run. Gonna use one of the bays to start the initial prep work until we secure the new gun depot__," Happy replied. "I'll head on down to Ma's, take care of shit and be back in a couple of days and when I am, you know we're gonna hit the—" _

_Tig was grinning as they both bellowed loud enough to wake the dead, __"—__Jellybean!"_

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Saturday, April 17, 2010**_

Happy was smiling as he continued to make his way down the highway knowing that Tig was probably yanking his hair out, anxiously anticipating their next venture to their favorite strip club.

On the surface, there was nothing really extraordinary about the Jellybean except how truly fugly the strippers were. As a matter of fact, Opie had a point in labeling them "horsemeat in g-strings". The haggard-looking bitches swinging listlessly around a pole had been called many things, but easy on the eyes was certainly NOT one of them. The Brothers Grim—as Happy and Tig were known by all the regulars and employees at the strip club—would never recommend the Jellybean to anyone looking to indulge in some eye candy.

If you wanted to jerk off to some tight little body with massive fake tits and a pretty face, the Brothers Grim would advise you to keep walking 'cause you won't find it there. _But_ if you didn't mind looking at sagging skin with visible c-section scars and deflated party balloons where tits used to be while getting head until your eyes crossed as a result of the incredible suction on your dick, then come right in 'cause the Jellybean Lounge was the place to be.

Happy was satisfied that he had addressed the elephant in the room with Tig and had smoothed shit over with his brother before leaving Charming. Reinforcing their bond as they shoved dollar bills into the snatches and ass cracks of tired-looking strippers-slash-hookers, however, would have to wait. Happy had business to attend to, both for the Club and of a personal nature.

With the trip getting pushed off a few more days by the Pres, it was now some six days out of Stockton before Happy was finally pulling off the highway and heading down the familiar streets of his old neighborhood. Though he was looking forward to seeing his family, he knew that with each passing traffic light he was steadily drawing ever closer to the righteous ass chewing Amelia Lowman probably had in store for him.

_But knowing Ma, she'll stuff me with good eats as she's doing it, _Happy thought as he cut over to the next lane to avoid a car full of joy-riding teenagers. _And I'm a'ight with that_.

The biker had resigned himself to the fact that he had it coming anyway, especially since after Marlowe's unexpected visit to him in Stockton Happy had made no further contact with either woman. Holding true to his belief that he needed to keep his emotions firmly in check and his family out of his head while inside, he had limited himself to accepting the few letters he had received from them, never writing back. Happy refused to acknowledge to himself, however, just how important those letters were to him and how he had practically memorized each one word for word.

On the day he got out, Happy had called to let his mother know that he was alive and would be by to see her soon, but no one had been home. He had left a brief message on the answering machine and hadn't called back. With all the shit the Club had on tap those first few days after being paroled, he had done his best to keep his head and his heart separate. Knowing that his mother was alive and waiting for him was all that really mattered. Learning that her cancer was in remission let him put family matters in a box for the moment as he focused on getting shit done for the Club.

Now that he had a few days to focus on family matters, Happy had used some of his downtime before heading to Bakersfield to do some investigative work on the next steps necessary to get his mother completely whole again. As stubborn as the Cuban woman was, he knew it was going to take a good minute to get his mother on board with his plans, but unlike Marlowe, he wasn't about to let Amelia give him any shit. She was going to do as she was told whether she wanted to or not. Sometimes, the best and simplest way to deal with a headstrong woman was not to give her a choice to begin with.

Pulling into the large driveway that ran the length of the right side of the house, Happy parked behind two cars—his mother's dark blue Corolla and a real piece of shit Escort he assumed belonged to Marlowe. Cutting off the engine, Happy removed his helmet and hung it from the handle bars. He smirked as he noted the explosion of colorful spring flowers that spilled from the large clay pots on the porch and the window boxes. Their fragrance mixed with the scent of fresh herbs growing in Amelia's makeshift garden off the side of the house which included the ever-present vines of green peas. The meticulously-kept front lawn looked as if it had just been mowed and was a deep, vibrant and healthy green.

_Ma's water bill must be through the fuckin' roof, _Happy thought as he got off his bike and stretched his taut frame. _And I hope she has Marlowe doing her bitch work or I'm gonna tan both their hides_. Slipping off his dark riding glasses, he hung them from the collar of his white t-shirt and started up the walkway of zigzagging slabs of multi-colored slate stones. He remembered installing the walkway himself about a year before doing his first serious stretch in prison.

Making it only about halfway, Happy allowed a small smile to slip onto his face as the sturdy screen door was shoved open, revealing a tall and familiar figure standing in the doorway and leaning on a cane.

"Aye Dios mio!" Amelia managed to shriek as she slowly made her way towards the edge of the porch. "What took you so long to drag your ass home, hijo?"

"Sorry, Ma," Happy replied as he made his way up the short flight of steps. "I had some shit to take care of first, but I'm here now, a'ight?"

"So, taking care of some shit es mas importante que tu propia madre, eh?" Amelia scolded, half in English and half in Spanish, a sure sign she was pissed. "Tell me, Kique, after I carried you for nine months, nurturing you with my own body and enduring twenty-six hours of labor, what's more important than coming home to see your mother?"

"Shit, nothing, Ma! Melodramatic much?" Happy's voice was gruff but not without emotion as he carefully looked his mother over, inwardly sighing with relief.

_She's looking a hell of a lot better_, he thought approvingly, noting that she was no longer gaunt, her face and long frame fuller and softer. But while Amelia Lowman's appearance had significantly improved, her demeanor had not. Wrapping her arms around her son's sturdy frame, she continued her litany of Spanglish abuse interspersed with exclamations of love and joy.

"And what the hell was that message you left? _'I'm out and I'll catch you later'_? I'm not one of your homies, Kique," she scolded.

"_Brothers_, Ma, not 'homies' and stop bitching, a'ight?" Happy ordered. Putting a finger across her mouth to shut her up, he tenderly kissed her forehead. "I'm here now."

Standing behind the screen door, Marlowe leaned against the wall and watched as mother and son reunited after not seeing each other for over a year. As Amelia shed unabashed tears, thanking God in heaven for seeing her son through another ordeal, Marlowe gave herself a stern talking to.

_Don't even think about losing your shit! There's no reason for Hap to know just how glad you are to see him again, out, safe and whole_, she chastised herself.

"Geez, I stopped cleaning the toilet for _this_?" Marlowe drawled, her arms crossed over her chest. "You'd think that with all the commotion and racket going on someone special had dropped by or something." She twisted her lips into a hard grimace as Happy raised his head to meet her eyes.

"What the fuck _you_ still doing around?" Happy asked condescendingly. "With the habit you have of doing stupid shit, I thought by now you would have run away again and joined the circus."

Marlowe fake-pouted at Happy. "Aw, are you grumpy 'cause you miss your prison husband?"

Happy glared at her through narrow slits. "I wasn't grumpy 'til I laid eyes on you, little girl."

Ushering everyone inside, Amelia smiled as her two children continued to snipe at each other. Closing the door behind her, she sighed happily as once again all was right with her world.

* * *

"Ma, can you at least let me eat my shit before taking a chunk outta my ass?" Happy complained as he tried to shove a forkful of the almost heavenly rice and black beans into his mouth. "You have no idea what the food was like in the joint."

"No, I don't and the fact that you do is no one's fault but your own, Kique, so I don't really give a shit," Amelia retorted as she sat across from him in her kitchen. "Fourteen months and not one letter or phone call. You're as bad as this one!" She pointed at Marlowe.

"Hey, don't drag me into this! I was here," Marlowe shot back. "_And_ I went to Stockton to see about him."

"_After_ I nearly nagged you to death, Marley," Amelia said tersely.

Happy smirked, grateful for the reprieve as the two women continued to bicker. _The more they chew each other out, the better my chances are of finishing my food in peace._

Scooping up the last of his roast pork and the fresh avocado straight from Amelia's garden, Happy wiped his mouth with a napkin as he sat back in his chair. Seeing that he had finally finished eating, Amelia waved an impatient hand at Marlowe. "Hija, please, you're making me tired and I still have to deal with this one," she said as she turned to her son and focused a pair of sharp eyes on him. "I'm still waiting for an explanation, Enrique. You've been out almost a week now—"

"Ma, I told you," Happy shook his head with an impatient eye roll. "I had shit to take care of."

"Shit? What shit? Like sewing?" Amelia inquired with a raised eyebrow as Marlowe tried and failed to stifle her laughter.

"Don't you have a toilet to clean or something?" Happy growled at Marlowe, who stuck her tongue out at him as his mother continued talking over him.

"What's that thing—what do you call it—that new sticker on your jacket-vest thing?" Marlowe's eyes widened as Amelia pointed a finger at the kutte adorning Happy's muscular frame.

"Ma, how many times do I have to tell you? It's not a jacket or a vest, it's a _kutte_ and it's not a sticker, it's a patch," he said in a long-suffering tone.

"Last time I checked, a jacket without sleeves was called a vest, mijo, but whatever," Amelia shrugged her shoulders. "What does Sergeant-at-Arms mean? I know that's some sort of Army talk, right?"

"I ain't in no fuckin' Army, Ma. Unlike Marley, I don't have shit for brains," Happy replied as he got up to put his empty plates in the sink.

"Coulda fooled me 'cause how many times do I have to tell you I was in the _Navy_, asshole?" Marlowe retorted.

Happy grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down again. "As many times as it takes for me to understand why the fuck, which will be _never_, brat."

For a brief moment, Marlowe considered throwing Happy's ass under the bus by telling Amelia just exactly what that new patch meant. _Tía, it means that your son is probably the Club's trigger man and bullet catcher_.Meeting Happy's knowing glare, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking of doing, Marlowe batted her eyelashes at him sweetly and kept her mouth shut.

"It just means I have a little more responsibility in the Club is all," Happy answered. "I handle shit."

"Ave Maria, you handling a lot of shit lately, huh? Well, will any of that shit-handling put you inside again?" Amelia wanted to know.

"It's not like that, Ma," he lied and not for the first time.

Amelia crossed her arms. "Then tell me what it's like, Kique."

Happy took a long sip of his bottle of Corona, buying himself some time. "It ain't a big thing, Ma. Like now, I just need to make use of the storage room to hold some shit for the Club for a few days."

Marlowe felt her shoulders tense as she eyed her brother. _Storing shit for the Club, huh? I know what that means_, she thought grimly, _and I don't fuckin' like it_.

Despite the fact that Happy did his level best to keep Club business separate from his family, Marlowe had known him long enough to figure out just what business his Club was involved with a long time ago. Happy claimed that he was just a mechanic and part-time tattoo artist, but the Sons of Anarchy were a well-known outlaw biker club. Amelia was good at feigning ignorance of exactly how the Club her son lived for earned its living, but Marlowe had grown up street savvy and knew exactly what the deal was.

So before Amelia could open her mouth, Marlowe took Happy to task. "Are you out of your mind? You're storing your guns _here_?"

His face betraying nothing, Happy slowly turned his head to face his mother and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Don't look at me like that, Enrique. I never said anything to Marley. She's just good at figuring shit out is all."

"Knowledge of what I bring into this house is on a need-to-know basis, Marlowe, and you don't need to know because it has nothing to do with you," Happy's voice was low and gravelly.

"What I do know is that your ass is out on parole. You may want to end up back in the joint, but I don't!" Marlowe shot back. "I mean, I don't want this shit taking Amelia and me down with you. Ever think of that?"

He had, but at the moment Happy didn't have much of a choice. The first shipment of guns for the Cartel had arrived ahead of schedule. Until the Club's release from Stockton, merch from the RIRA had been trafficked and stored for the Club by Putlova's crew. Now that the ROC was permanently out of the picture, the Club had called on Happy to store the weapons until Clay could get a hold of Elliott Oswald in order to secure a new storage facility. Until then, they needed a temporary place to house the guns and Bakersfield was a hell of a lot closer than Tacoma.

Jax had hesitated asking for such a favor, but when he finally approached him about it, Happy had readily agreed. After all, the last place anyone would suspect of being an arms depot would be his mother's place. Marlowe could protest all she wanted, but with Kozik and Miles already on their way down from Canada with the shipment, it was a done deal. And hopefully, the last time Happy would have to make use of his mother's house in such a way.

"Yeah, I've thought about it. As long as Ma doesn't go running down the block to Mrs. Guzman and tells her we're having a two-for-one yard sale on Glocks, I think I got shit covered," Happy said irritably. "And you keep your mouth shut, too." He pointed at Marlowe with his beer bottle before polishing off the remainder of its contents.

Amelia sighed as she eyed her disreputable but much loved son. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you," she muttered.

"What can you do? I'm your favorite son." Happy flashed an actual smile at his mother and Marlowe almost fell out of her chair.

"You're my _only_ son and a royal pain in the ass to boot," she replied. "So there better be enough room back there for storage because I don't want none of that shit cluttering up my living room."

Amelia's passive agreement to her son's request set Marlowe's teeth on edge. _What the hell is it about Latino sons that lets them exercise mind control over their otherwise law-abiding mothers?_

"There'll be plenty of room after Marley helps me clear out some shit," Happy replied casually as he noted the fire in his sister's eyes.

"I don't recall volunteering," Marlowe said as she pointedly looked at her fingernails. "Maybe I got more important shit to do."

"You know that's true," Amelia started. "I was telling Vivica what a green thumb you have and she wants me to send you over to help her aerate her garden. She mentioned something about getting her hands on some horse dung she wants to use as fertilizer."

"You know what," Marlowe amended quickly, "Happy shouldn't have to do all that reorganizing by himself, Tía. I think we can put off me standing knee deep in horseshit indefinitely, thank you very much."

Leaning back in his chair, Happy folded his hands behind his gleaming head and grinned as two of the most important women in his life started to bicker again.

_Nothing like being back home._

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Sunday, April 18, 2010**_

"So where's my nephew?" Celia Lopez tossed her handbag down on the kitchen table. Sitting down in her favorite chair, Ceci's hazel eyes bounced back and forth between Amelia and Marlowe as she impatiently tapped her fingernails in a staccato beat on the oak wood table.

Marlowe walked to the table and placed a cup of espresso in front of each of the sisters before sitting down. "He went off to dump some garbage and shit. He should be back soon."

"It's about time he shows up, don't you think?" the no-nonsense history teacher said before sipping at her coffee. "Que cabrón! If I hadn't been so busy drafting a test for my students, I would have come right over last night after you called, Mellie, and slapped him on the back of his bald head."

"Tests, now? Can't you give those kids a break, Ceci?" Amelia asked as she sipped her coffee.

"Tu sabes como yo soy, Mellie. I love my students, but you've got to be firm to keep them in hand or they'll walk all over you and you know I don't play," Ceci defended herself.

_No you don't_, Marlowe thought with a sly smile. Sometimes she wondered how Happy would have turned out if Ceci had been his mother instead. _Shit, she would have run his ass into the ground_.

Celia Lopez was no shrinking violet. Having grown up first in San Miguel del Padrón, then on the streets of Miami being passed around from relative to relative, the younger of the Lopez girls had no choice but to develop a thick armor coating. After all, she had to watch over her older but soft-hearted and incredibly naïve-at-times sister, especially after they moved to California to attend college. Only two years apart, the sisters had an impenetrable bond and the only outsider to ever breach it had been Amelia's husband Manny, his brotherly love and affection towards Ceci melting her cold reserve.

Despite being a beauty in her own right, Ceci had been far more interested in academics. After suffering through a few relationships that had ended badly, Ceci decided to dedicate her life to her career, never ruling out marriage, but never pursuing it either. As the years passed, that had been a choice she had some lingering regrets having made. Now, instead of a family of her own, the only family Ceci had was her sister, Happy and Marlowe. That being the case, after Amelia's recent health crisis, she was determined that her nephew take her sister in hand since Mellie refused to listen to anyone else.

"Forget my students," Ceci said as she placed the tiny white cup on its saucer with a sharp click. "Did Kique have anything to say about your knee sur—"

Amelia wagged a finger at her sister. "Oye, hermanita, don't come in here stirring shit up. The more you move mierda around, the more it stinks and I can handle my own mess just fine. I don't need you sticking your nose in it too."

"Why not? She loves sticking it into everything else," Happy replied laconically as he walked in through the kitchen's back door.

"Ay, carajo! No me jodas!" The woman Happy loved like a second mother jumped up from her seat and threw her arms around her nephew. "I should box your ears."

"Why, for speaking the truth?" Happy teased. "You know you're a nosy bitch, Tía."

"Mira, cabrón, watch your mouth, okay?" his aunt shot back even as her shoulders shook with laughter. "I don't even know why I love you so much."

Marlowe watched in stunned silence as Amelia joined in and the two older women continued to dote and hover over Happy, who was lapping up the attention as if it was his due. _After fourteen months in a federal prison, he gets welcomed back like a hometown hero. I come back and get my ass handed to me_, Marlowe shook her head. _Jesus Christ, I should have been born a man!_

* * *

**Glossary**

**es mas importante que tu propia madre: **is more important than your own mother.

**Oye, hermanita: **Listen, little sister

**mierda**: shit

**Ay, carajo! No me jodas: **[slang] Aw, hell! Don't fuck with me.

**Mira, ****cabrón: **Look, you bastard


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

**A/N: You guys are ****really ****awesome! I really enjoyed reading ****all of your ****reviews for Chapter 10. I hope that everyone will continue to weigh in on this story, sharing your favorite parts as it really ****inspires me ****in my efforts to ****create ****a well-rounded and developed story. I ****meant to drop this chapter earlier (like ****_six_****_ hours ago)_****, but I'm still recovering from my turkey-induced coma and forgot. ****I'm sorry about that, but ****I hope to ****be reading your reviews soon****, and don't worry. The introduction of ****Jackson Teller and ****Marlowe Guthrie is almost here! Many thanks, Harlee.**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Monday, April 19, 2010**_

"He ain't too bad, but he still ain't shit compared to me," Happy boasted, lounging comfortably on the couch, his hands behind his head as the lead actor danced around the ring throwing and landing several hard blows on his sparring partner.

"I don't know about all that, but he sure is better to look at," Marlowe taunted as she admired the actor's built frame, from his muscled chest and abs of steel, right down to his low-riding boxing trunks. "Damn! He may be getting older, but I'm sure he can still rock the shit out of those Calvin Klein boxers he used to model."

"_What?!_ So I'm watching some pussy underwear model _pretend_ to be a boxer?" Happy asked, already losing all interest in _The Fighter_ with Mark Wahlberg. "Change this shit, Marley. Find something better to watch."

"Shows how much you know," Marlowe said from her position on the couch next to Happy as he flashed her an evil look. "But if you insist." She picked up the universal remote and surfed a few channels before stopping on a premium one. "There, _Machete_. Is that better?"

"Much," Happy nodded with approval.

"Of course, blood, guns, and big ass knives. How come I'm not surprised?" Marlowe snarked as she reached for the bowl of popcorn that sat between them.

Stretched out on opposite sides of the sofa in front of the wall-mounted flat screen, Marlowe and Happy had spent the last couple of hours watching movies and talking shit. Hanging out with Happy as they snarkily bashed the storylines and cheesy dialogue brought back fond memories of the times the outlaw biker would visit when Marlowe was a teenager. Hard to believe now, yes, but there had been a time when Happy was the one person she had been closest too. Although not always easy to talk to, Marlowe somehow always knew he listened and, even when he didn't know what to say, he always tried. All that changed, however, when she had joined the Navy.

His lifestyle choices made it blatantly obvious that Happy had very little regard for authority. Marlowe could understand why _he'd_ have a problem with joining the military as a career choice. _For Happy_ it wasn't an option, but it hadn't been like Marlowe had signed them up as a package deal. Joining the Navy had been Marlowe's career plan since before she had met Happy and Amelia. Never too keen on school, she had never planned on going to college, but wanted training that would lead her to a professional career helping people. Most of all, Marlowe wanted out of Bakersfield. She wanted to see the world and enjoy new experiences while young and unlike Happy, she didn't have the option of jumping on a Harley and hitting the road in order to broaden her horizons beyond her hometown.

Her choice to join the Navy straight out of high school had been a bitter pill for Happy to swallow, especially since Marlowe had never discussed making that decision with him or Amelia. Quite frankly, the truth was that she never even considered that what she chose to do with her life was something that would be open for debate. Even after eight years of living full-time in the Lowman household and being treated as a member of the family, Marlowe still couldn't help but feel like a charity case. In her mind, it was time to stand on her own and make something more of her life than her own mother had. Marlowe was determined not to give history the chance to repeat itself with whatever children she decided to bring into the world someday.

Happy, never failing to disappoint with his stubbornness, refused to see the situation from Marlowe's perspective. In his mind, this was just Marlowe Guthrie being a hard-headed bitch, just like her mother. The fact that he had no filter and expressed his feelings against her plans in just those exact words had sealed the deal for Marlowe. She graduated from high school and a week later left Bakersfield for basic training. Although Marlowe kept in touch with Amelia by phone when she could, but mostly by mail, the last words she had exchanged with Happy had been said in anger and hurt over ten years ago.

Now, as they sat watching movies while washing down buttery popcorn with ice cold beers, Marlowe could feel the elephant in the room knocking over and trampling on shit. The last thing she wanted to do was open up old wounds as well as fairly recent ones by bringing up her time in the military or why she was no longer on active duty. Tía considered it something of a major miracle that Happy hadn't forced the issue, but warned Marlowe that the day would come when she would have no choice but to talk shit out with her brother. And, unlike Marlowe, Amelia wasn't convinced that was a bad thing either. As far as she was concerned, her son and the young woman she loved like a daughter would both benefit from getting a lot of hurt off their chests, especially Marlowe.

Marlowe, however, wasn't looking forward to the inevitable and she was more than fine keeping the topic off the table for as long as possible. Thank God Ceci had decided to stay the night in order to visit with her nephew and had bunked with Amelia. Having those two around had provided the buffer Marlowe needed to keep her and Happy at arm's length. Keeping busy as they organized Marlowe's former bedroom, now Happy's storage room, there had not been a whole lot of time to catch up on the last decade.

Instead, Marlowe had spent much of her time bitching to Happy about life with her two aunts. Although the Lopez sisters only had each other, Amelia and Celia had a love/hate relationship. It didn't matter what time of day or situation at hand, they were constantly at odds and at each other's throats. After so many years away from home, Marlowe had forgotten what a pain in the ass playing referee between the two had been while growing up.

"You have no idea, but you owe me big time, Hap," Marlowe started as she lifted a box to stack against the wall. "I had hoped that maybe age had mellowed them out, but fuck, was I ever wrong. They're still quite a pair of cranky bitches."

_Thanks to the gruesome twosome, I'm back on __Xanax __on a daily basis._

"Don't be disrespectful," Happy said gruffly. "That's your family you're talkin' about."

"No shit, Hap. And I love them dearly, but you know what I mean. First, one of them says something absolutely ridiculous, and then the other says the total opposite just to be contrary. They get into a roaring argument and don't speak for days," Marlowe complained. "In between, here _I _am, stuck having to hear this shit over and over again. When I finally break down and give them my opinion, they're suddenly best friends again and I look like a shithead for getting involved."

"You kinda are a shithead, Marley. You should know better by now, don'tcha think? 'Sides, that shit was kinda funny to read about," Happy looked up with a grin that stretched across his face as he picked up a large black garbage bag and headed for the door. Happy genuinely smiling wasn't something Marlowe was accustomed to seeing a lot of, so when he did, it really gave her a kick.

_He looks younger, almost human, when he smiles._

"So glad I could provide you with a way to pass the time while in lock-up other than jerking off," she shouted at his retreating back.

After finishing the storage room, they had gone their separate ways in order to clean up before sitting down for Happy's official welcome home dinner of all his favorites cooked up by Amelia and Celia. It was during dinner that Happy had announced that he was expecting a couple of his Club brothers to drop by the following day. When Amelia heard that the two men were coming, her hospitable nature had kicked in and she wanted to know where they would be staying.

"In the truck," Happy quickly responded before draining a bottle of Cerveza Cristal.

"Kique, you can't have guests come and have them sleep in a truck," his mother admonished.

"They're not guests, Ma," he replied gruffly. "They're my brothers."

"Pues, hijo, that makes them _family_," Amelia said matter-of-factly. "They can stay _here_, we'll make room."

Marlowe's eyes had widened with amusement. _Tía and a bunch of bikers_?_ This is some shit I GOT to see._

"No, Ma," her son contradicted with a dark tone. "That shit ain't happening."

_No way in hell._

Now as she and Happy sat in companionable silence watching Danny Trejo dodge a barrage of bullets, Marlowe glanced over at the loveseat on which she had set out a pile of pillows and freshly-laundered blankets and sheets.

As usual, when Amelia Lowman wanted her way, she got it and there was no sense in fighting her on it. By the end of dinner the night before, Amelia had settled the matter and, with Happy's brothers staying only one night before heading back to Charming, she had come up with a plan.

"Ceci's been nagging me to see some chick movie for a couple of weeks now—"

"I have not!" Celia argued indignantly, but Amelia continued, ignoring her.

"—so we'll make a night of it. Dinner and a movie and I'll just stay the night at her house while you entertain your guests, hijo," Amelia suggested as she poured them cups of coffee to go along with Ceci's Dulce de Leche cake.

"They ain't guests, Ma," Happy argued gruffly, "and they ain't pussies. They've bunked in worse places than the cab of a truck."

"Humor me, okay, Kique?" his mother chastised. "Besides, how will it look to have two men sitting in a truck on my driveway all night? Don't you think that could draw the wrong kind of attention?"

"Tía has a point, Hap," Marlowe chimed in, stabbing the piece of cake on her plate with a fork. Happy let loose with an annoyed grunt.

_Leave it to these two to gang up on __me_, Happy thought with irritation._ But they have a point_.

It would be conspicuous enough having one of Unser's big ass trucks parked in the driveway all night. The last thing Happy needed was some nosy and suspicious neighbor calling the cops to check out why two strange men were sleeping in it. Begrudgingly changing his mind, Happy conceded to having his brothers stay in the house, but only in the living room. After trying but failing to get Marlowe to go with Amelia and Celia to the movies, she was the only other person in the house waiting with Happy for his brothers to show up.

It was getting late and the final credits were rolling when Marlowe heard the sound of a large vehicle pulling into the driveway. With the sound of televised automatic gunfire still ringing in her ears, Marlowe quickly jumped to her feet. Reaching for her sidearm and realizing she no longer carried one, she headed for the living room window and peered out into the darkness.

"Hey!" Happy called out to her as he used the remote to shut off the television. Marlowe turned to face him, her heart still pounding in her chest like a jackhammer. If something was wrong, Happy didn't notice. "Time for bed, Marley."

It took her a moment as she tried to clear the fog that had suddenly descended on her brain before she understood what Happy was saying. "What the fuck, Hap?" Marlowe replied as she shook her head, still somewhat confused.

"You heard me, little girl. Take your skinny ass off to your room and stay there. I got shit to handle," Happy said gruffly as he stood up from the couch.

"You cannot be serious." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Testing me right now is not a good idea, Marlowe, so be a good little grunt and do what you're told. You know, like they taught you in the Army," Happy replied, leaving no room for argument as he walked towards the kitchen to make his way to the back door.

"NAVY, you asshole!" Marlowe yelled as she watched the kitchen door swing closed behind him. "Idiot," she muttered.

Left with no alternative, she grabbed the bowl of popcorn and stomped her way back to her room. Kicking the door closed behind her, Marlowe sprawled out on the bed with a huff as she shoved her hand into the bowl and munched loudly on its buttery and salty contents.

_Who the fuck does he think he is_, she thought bitterly as she looked up at the ceiling.

Unlike Happy, Marlowe didn't have a problem with authority. She had learned early on in her career to follow the orders of her superiors. Not doing so could cost someone their life, including herself. It seemed, however, that Happy just got off on treating her like a child and exerting whatever authority he believed he still had over her. _That_ she had a problem with. When was he going to realize that after three tours of duty in the Middle East, she had gone up against badder asses than himself? Aside from the shit she saw when she closed her eyes sometimes, there was very little that Marlowe feared. And that included Happy Lowman.

Cocking an ear to the side, Marlowe strained to hear the low murmur of voices over the sound of heavy footfalls as more than one man made their way past her bedroom towards the back of the house. Quietly getting up from the bed, she made her way over to the door. With the lights out in her room, Marlowe slowly cracked the door open a sliver and watched as two men—each wearing a kutte similar to her brother's—made their way down the short hallway with a long narrow crate. With the hallway dimly lit Marlowe couldn't make out any distinguishing features except that one of them was tall with blond hair and the other, shorter with dark hair shot with silver.

Quietly closing the door once again, Marlowe returned to her bed. Even without her military training, it wouldn't take a genius to venture a guess as to what was in those crates. Although Happy had never confirmed, he hadn't denied her suspicions either and despite knowing that the contents of the crates being brought into the house could send everyone under this roof tonight to prison, Marlowe couldn't help being intrigued by it all.

After all, it wasn't like she would be getting much sleep anyway. Insomnia had been something Marlowe had struggled with on and off for the past five years. It had worsened, however, since she had returned stateside, with what little sleep she managed to get plagued by horrific nightmares. Biting her thumbnail, Marlowe's eyes drifted closed. Although far from sleepy in spite of the late hour, if she meditated and allowed herself to relax, maybe sleep would come without her needing to pop several pills. Trying to concentrate on her breathing, her wide gray eyes suddenly flew open as she bolted upright on the bed.

"What the fuck's going on?" she muttered to herself as she rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. "I haven't thought about that shit in months. Why the fuck start now?" she chastised herself, the image of her commanding officer's body ripped to shreds by a grenade burned into her mind's eye.

Taking a deep breath, Marlowe let herself fall back onto the soft bed. _It's bad enough this shit's waiting for me in my dreams. No need to relieve it while I'm awake too._

Pulling herself out of bed, Marlowe started pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. She didn't want to be alone right now, but the last thing she wanted to do was push Happy's buttons. She could always leave and head to a bar, but before she could convince herself that trolling for a one-night stand was a good idea, Marlowe stripped down to a pair of skimpy briefs and threw on an oversized t-shirt. Pulling back the covers, she tucked herself in and grabbed a paperback novel from the pile sitting on the nightstand.

Flipping open to the where she had left off the night before, Marlowe resigned herself to another sleepless, lonely night. Pausing, she briefly thought about the two patches that were at this moment unpacking their MC's illegal merchandise and wondered if she would ever get to meet any of Happy's brothers.

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Tuesday, April 20, 2010**_

It was the strong aroma of rich, delicious coffee that woke Kozik from a deep sleep. Stretching out his long frame on the surprisingly comfortable sofa, he cracked open one blue eye as he sought out the location of the Club's newest patch. Kozik nearly snorted with laughter as he spotted Miles, who was folded into a fetal position, barely hanging on to the small loveseat that had been his lot to sleep on.

_Idiot would have been better off sleeping on the floor_, Kozik thought as he sat up and rubbed a hand through his choppily cut hair.

It had taken several days to make the run to the border of Canada to meet the crew who had brought the Cartel's first order safely across the Pacific. The transfer had gone smoothly and he and Miles had taken a roundabout route to bring the guns into California. They had been forced to sleep in the truck at out of the way rest stops in order to keep the contents safe and last night was the first time in several days that Kozik had been able to get horizontal.

Standing up, Kozik stretched his arms over his head and groaned.

_I'm getting too old for this shit._

At 49, the ex-marine turned biker sauntered over to the large mirror that was in the small foyer and gave himself the once over.

_Fuck it, I __still__ look good_, he boasted inwardly.

Running a hand over three days of growth on his chin, Kozik examined himself closely. Spotting only a few stray silver hairs here and there, he also noted that his face was still handsome and virtually unlined. He was tall and lean, his muscular body encased in a skintight wife-beater shirt and long legs wrapped in blue jeans. Working out regularly at his age was paying off, as he looked more like a sun-kissed California beach boy rather than a hardcore biker. Kozik often used his laid-back and charming personality to his advantage, letting outsiders—and sometimes his own brothers—assume he wasn't as tough as the kutte he wore. Little did they know what a mistake it was judging this book by its over. After all, he hadn't become the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Tacoma charter because he was a squeaky clean boy scout. He had definitely earned his shit.

Turning as the deep scent of coffee wafted towards him, Kozik figured that Happy must have fallen out of bed and had put on a pot of coffee. Feeling the need for a hit or two, the handsome biker made his way to the kitchen and pushed through the swinging door. He stopped dead in his tracks as, instead of his gruff, bald-headed brother, he spotted a beautiful woman standing in the kitchen.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Kozik was hard pressed not to whistle loudly as he enjoyed the view of a well-endowed backside attached to the tall and slender woman standing in front of a huge pot of coffee.

_Nice, _Kozik thought with a grin as his eyes travelled up from her ass covered in low-slung cargo pants paired with worn combat boots, to an expanse of wavy, dark blonde hair that trailed over a red tank top and down her delicately curved back. _Definitely not __a girl trying to make a fashion statement_, he thought as he got a teasing glance of a half-sleeve tattoo. Hoping that the front was as good as the back, a question nagged his brain, barely making it past the sudden surge of testosterone flooding his veins. _W__hat the fuck is she doing in Hap's mother's kitchen_?

"Are you gonna stand there and stare at my ass all day, biker boy?" the beauty said without turning as she sipped at the large mug in her hands.

Kozik jerked at the question and then blinked as he realized that he had been busted. _ Well shit, don't I come off like a fuckin' perv. _

But always the consummate ladies man, Kozik quickly moved to thwart what was probably every woman's built-in radar that kicked in whenever she detected a man eye-fucking her.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said with a gosh-darn smile in his voice. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Oh, you moved out of the rude zone and into stalker territory about ten seconds ago," she replied as she turned around and Kozik felt like he had been hit by a truck as he met a stunning pair of wide gray eyes in a beautiful face.

Fighting the sudden and real urge to ask if they had ever met before—the oldest line in the book—Kozik managed to crack a smile. "Well, can you blame me? It's not every day I wake up to find a gorgeous woman in the kitchen."

He watched as the woman leaned against the counter and crossed her arms underneath her chest. "Um, nice try, but somehow I get the feeling that's not the first time you've used that bullshit line," she paused as she eyed him up and down appreciatively. _Not bad. Not bad at all_. "So, you got a name, beach boy?"

Kozik chuckled before running a hand over his head. "Kozik."

"That's an interesting first name," Marlowe smiled flirtatiously. _Yeah, it's definitely been a while since I've been around a man that wasn't Happy_.

"It's not," he replied. "I don't use my first name."

"Don't care for it?"

"Not particularly."

She shrugged. "I accept that."

Kozik quirked an eyebrow. "You don't happen to know Chucky, by chance?"

"Chucky who?"

"Never mind. If you knew him, you wouldn't have to ask," he said waving a hand. "So, do _I _get a name, pretty girl?"

"It's Marlowe," she smiled.

"Marlowe what?"

"Just Marlowe," she said before turning her back on him again. "You want some coffee, Kozik?"

"Absolutely. I'd kill for some right about now," he replied and watched as she poured rich black coffee into a large mug and handed it to him. As he grabbed the proffered coffee, he finally got a good look at the detailed half-sleeve tattoo on her upper left arm. "Bettie Page. Nice. Whoever did it is a real pro."

"Yeah, he can be when he's not being an asshole," she replied cryptically. Walking over to the table, Marlowe pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing her legs. "You can join me, if you want."

Following her lead, Kozik pulled out a chair across from her and sipped his coffee. "Good shit."

"Thanks. It's not the espresso I usually make, but it'll do in a pinch," she replied. "So, I'm guessing you're also a member of Hap's club."

"That's right," Kozik replied non-committal.

"And an ex-Marine," Marlowe sipped her coffee as she watched Kozik's eyes widen. "I noticed the ink," she said, gesturing at his upper bicep emblazoned with a Marine insignia tattoo.

"There's no such thing as an ex-Marine, sweetheart," Kozik grinned as he flexed his bicep flirtatiously.

Marlowe nodded in agreement. "That's right. Once a Marine, always a Marine. It's a shame, really," she teased. "You're too damn pretty for a jarhead."

"Oh little girl, them are fightin' words," he warned with no malice.

"They sure are and this FMF Corpsman can and has eaten jarheads like you for breakfast," Marlowe said with a wicked smile. Holding out her right forearm, she showed off a tattoo of a Caduceus, a short rod entwined by two snakes and topped by a pair of wings, with the words "My Brother's Keeper" right above it in classic calligraphy.

"Are you shitting me?" Kozik exclaimed, his blue eyes bright.

"Nope. Joined when I was eighteen and recently discharged. You?"

"Yeah, I joined straight out of high school myself," Kozik replied quietly. "I signed on for six, but was out by the time I was twenty-two." Marlowe furrowed her brow, not sure how to continue the conversation. Kozik grinned wryly as he sat back in his chair. "It's okay, doll, you can ask."

"What happened?" Marlowe asked quietly. "I mean, aside from the beach boy good looks, you seem like a tough son of a bitch."

"You bet I am and don't you forget that, squid," Kozik teased. He fell silent for a moment, seemingly mesmerized by the contents of his coffee mug. "It's not that I couldn't hack it," he continued. "Uncle Sam and I just had a difference of opinion when it came to my sobriety is all."

_Fuck, I can relate_, Marlowe thought to herself. After her first tour in Afghanistan, she had self-medicated with alcohol.

"I was a troublemaker as a kid, never backing down from a fight," Kozik started explaining. "But it was clean trouble-making, you know? The worst I did was smoke cigarettes I'd lift from my mom's purse and, on occasion, I'd pinch a couple of beers from the 7-11. It took me joining the Marine Corps and traveling the world to get into some really freaky-deaky shit. My CO tried helping me out, tried to get me clean, but I was young and stupid. Thought I had all the answers, dumb little shit that I was."

"What was your poison?"

"Heroin."

"Ouch," Marlowe replied as she finished her coffee and got up to grab the pot. Returning to the table she refilled both their cups. "You were getting high on Uncle Sam's time?" She shrugged a shoulder as she sat down. "So pretty, but not too bright, huh?"

Kozik chuckled. "You got a smart mouth on you, you know that?"

"I've been told once or twice," Marlowe said with a smile before taking another sip of coffee. "So I'm gonna take a giant leap and guess you were discharged."

Kozik nodded. "My CO was a great guy, though. With all the piss tests I failed, I could have easily been dishonorably discharged, but he recommended a medical instead. He saw a lot of his brothers come back from Vietnam strung out and believed addiction was a disease. Without him backing me up like that, I never would have cleaned up."

For the first time in years, Kozik found himself sharing the details of a very dark period in his life with someone not wearing an SOA kutte. Putting aside the fact that she was hot as fuck, Marlowe had not only answered the call of duty, but had served her country on the battlefield of war. It didn't matter that they had served different branches of the military. Male or female, it was all one big brotherhood and it was obvious that the grunt sitting in front of him had a gold-plated set of balls.

"Thanks to my CO, I was able to get my shit together. Unfortunately, my old lady at the time was heavy into partying and shit. I loved her, but she didn't want my help," he stopped as he looked into Marlowe's gray eyes, his own widening slightly as he noted the flecks of gold within them.

"Sometimes our loved ones won't be helped, no matter what we do or how much we love them," Marlowe stated, thinking of her own mother.

"Don't I know it," he paused for a long moment. "I had to let her go. I had already given up my life as a Marine and by then I had met up with the Sons. I was lucky to find that brotherhood again and I couldn't afford to let old, bad habits take that away from me too," Kozik shrugged. "I left San Diego for NorCal and the rest, as they say, is history. So, what's your story? Why not finish your twenty and get your pension? Why give up being a Corpsman for a career as a caregiver? You can't be making much money."

Marlowe slowly put down her cup. "A _what_?" she asked cautiously.

"A caregiver. Happy said that you've been staying with his Mom since he went inside, taking care of her and stuff. The way he put it—" Kozik trailed off as he noted the hard glint in Marlowe's eyes.

"Oh, no, I totally get it," Marlowe replied sarcastically. "I know _exactly_ what Happy thinks I am."

_What an __asshole_, she thought irritably.

_Shit, looks like I might have offended her_, Kozik thought as he considered the situation. Either she was more to Happy than he was letting on or she _thought_ she was. As long as Kozik had known Happy, however, the outlaw biker had never had an old lady, but he had also never mentioned Marlowe as being the one caring for his mother. _Either way, can't say I blame my brother for keeping quiet about this hot piece of ass_.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open to reveal a sleepy Miles sporting serious bed head. "Uh, hi," his face brightened as he spotted Marlowe. "The smell of some really awesome coffee woke me up."

"I guess I should get you a cup then," Marlowe stated. Retrieving another mug from the overhead cabinet above the coffee machine, she poured him a cup and handed it to him. "Marlowe," she offered a hand.

"Miles," he responded and shook her hand firmly before taking a sip of coffee. "Truly excellent shit," he nodded approvingly.

"Thanks," Marlowe replied absently, her mind on the biker whose ass she was gonna kick.

_And think of the fuckin' devil_, she thought when the door swung open, _and he magically appears_.

"What the fuck is going on in here?" Happy practically bellowed.

"Ain't nothing going on, Hap," Kozik said pleasantly, trying to ignore the look of ire on Happy's face. He didn't want to be responsible for his brother getting all pissy with Marlowe, especially if Hap thought that he was pushing up on what was probably his woman. "Except some coffee and polite conversation."

"And maybe some food, I hope," Miles said earnestly. "I'm starving."

"Well, I can make—" Marlowe started.

"You can go to your fuckin' room," Happy interrupted tersely.

Kozik almost took a step out of his chair to get in between his brother and the suddenly-pissed young woman shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

"Oh sure, you wouldn't want your mother's _caregiver_ getting in the fuckin' way."

_Oh shit_, Kozik rubbed his forehead as he watched Happy fold his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, that's right," Happy agreed, failing to pick up on Marlowe's thinly veiled sarcasm. Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Miles, he continued, "If shithead here wants something to eat, he can make it himself and he better hurry. The Pres called, so we need to pack up those other crates and head back to Charming pronto!" Seeing Marlowe digging in her heels, Happy scowled. "Is there a reason your ass is still in here? GO!"

Fuming to the point where she wanted to pull a knife from the butcher block and stab him with it, Marlowe knew better than to cut up in front of Happy's brothers. That was definitely some shit she knew he would not tolerate. Stalking off angrily, Marlowe practically stormed out of the room through the swinging door, getting a small measure of satisfaction as she slammed her bedroom door.

"Whew," Miles replied as he looked at Happy. "She's pissed. You might wanna tone it down a bit. Employees nowadays will sue for any little shit."

"Maybe you should tone it down unless you want me pissed at you," Happy started unpleasantly. "Patch or no patch, it won't be pretty."

"Um, yes sir," Miles replied hesitantly. The former-Prospect was still too much of a newbie to even consider taking on the outspoken older outlaw. Instead he walked over to the refrigerator and opened it, inspecting its contents before turning back to his brothers. "Anybody up for pancakes?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA – Tuesday, April 20, 2010**_

Growing up a tomboy and around Happy, it was inevitable that Marlowe would pick up some bad habits. Or at least that was Ceci's explanation every time the young girl got into trouble. As far as Marlowe was concerned, however, the sun shone out of Happy's ass and he could do no wrong, so of course she wanted to emulate her idol in every way possible. One of Happy's first lessons had been that she had to let it be known that she wasn't gonna take shit from anyone, period. And, in order to back up such a bold statement, he had taught her how to fight.

Considering that Happy had first-hand knowledge of how shitty her home life had been before moving in with Amelia, it was safe to say that he had meant well. The way Happy saw it, he was just passing along a vital skill set—the ability to defend and protect oneself—and Marlowe had been an apt pupil. His secret little protégé.

To everyone else, she had been an adolescent menace to society.

Once she joined the Navy, learning to live without the giant chip on her shoulder had been one of the first and hardest things Marlowe had to do. While her Recruit Division Commander had been impressed with her physical conditioning and her knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, he had been less appreciative of her defensive nature and all-around bad attitude. Her RDC had put her through her paces, breaking down the old Marlowe and rebuilding her into a team player, a lifesaver, and a sailor.

Ten years later, it had taken Happy Lowman less than 72 hours to find her weak spot and piss all over it, shattering the high level of self-control and discipline she had achieved during her tenure in the U.S. Navy. Just that morning Marlowe had stormed out of the house, sick to death of being treated so callously by Happy, especially in front of his Club brothers. It was either stomp away like a petulant child or bash his head in with Amelia's cast iron skillet.

She had been mortified by the way he had dismissed her, embarrassing her in front of someone who believed, thanks to Happy, that Marlowe was nothing more than an employee of his family. She had marched straight to her room all right, in order to retrieve the broken-in soft leather backpack she had brought in a local market during her first tour of duty in Afghanistan and her beat up denim jacket. She then headed for the front door, jumped into her piece of shit car and sped off. It wasn't exactly an Oscar-worthy exit as her Ford Escort had backfired, leaving a thick plume of black exhaust behind as she pulled off, but she didn't give a shit. It had given her a satisfying outlet for blowing off steam that didn't involve running over Happy's bike, thus signing her own death warrant.

Pulling into the driveway hours later, Marlowe immediately noticed that the truck as well as Happy's bike were gone. Realizing that he had ducked out on her before they had the chance to discuss plans for Amelia regarding her much-needed knee surgery, Marlowe felt her ire rising once again.

Seeing that Amelia's car was parked in the driveway instead, Marlowe exited her car, slamming the door behind her, hoping that Amelia was at least in a better mood than she was after spending the night with her sister. Marlowe quickly sensed that all bets were off, however, as soon as she walked through the front door. From the foyer, she spotted her surrogate mother sitting in her favorite armchair, her cane resting by her side as she glared daggers at Marlowe.

If she thought she had been pissed off before, staring into Tía's angry eyes—eyes that also betrayed her fear—Marlowe regretted with all her might not taking the cast iron skillet to Happy Lowman's head.

"Oh, shit," Marlowe sighed dramatically as she dropped her backpack on the sofa before plopping down next to it. "What the fuck did I do now?"

"Ah, feeling guilty about something, Marley? So you knew about this shit?" Amelia demanded, her arms crossed over her heaving chest. "Madre de Dios! Why am I even asking—of course you knew about this. _You_ must have been the one who told him after all!"

_Aw crap! Thanks for the warning, Hap. You shithead!_

Marlowe decided that her best bet was to play dumb for now. "Told who what?"

"You told Kique about that charlatan doctor's claim that I _need_ my knee replaced."

Marlowe ran her hand through her loose caramel-colored waves and sighed with exasperation. "Of course I told him. He's your son," she reasoned, seeing no sense in denying the truth. "But I'm sure that's not the only reason you're giving me the stink eye, so go ahead. Let me have it."

Amelia shook her head in disbelief. "I should have known you two were up to something these past couple of days, being all nicey-nicey with each other. I'm starting to think it's better when you're at each other's throats instead."

_Then you should have been here a few hours ago, Tía_.

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Marlowe said and she meant it. She was now completely lost after having copped to ratting her out to Happy about her knee.

"Fine, I'll indulge your mistaken belief that I just got off the banana boat _this_ time, Marley," Amelia harrumphed as she rolled her eyes. "I got home about an hour ago expecting to find a full house, but Kique's friends were long gone. I didn't even get the chance to ask where you had taken off to before he sat me down to advise me that he had taken the liberty of making arrangements for my knee surgery _and_ that I was going to do what I was told! He said that as my healthcare proxy what he says goes and that includes the decision of putting me in an old age home if I refuse. He said it was either that or he was going to tie my ass on to the back of his bike and ride me all the way to Charming!"

Marlowe blinked once. Then twice. "Charming?" she asked stupidly. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm scheduled for surgery in some hospital in that backwater town he lives in, that's what I'm talking about," her aunt said dismally.

"What?!" Marlowe asked weakly.

"You heard me, hija," Amelia sniffed. "_He said_ that Bakersfield was too far away for him to drive down every week to see me. _He said_ that he needed to know that I was doing what I was told and that Charming is just too far away for him to keep an eye on me. _He said_ that if I was gonna act like a four-year old then he was going treat me like one. _He said_ I'd already had a chance to do right by listening to the doctor and having the surgery at Bakersfield Memorial _before_ he got out and that now it was too late."

"Wow," Marlowe murmured with a hint of admiration in her voice. _I knew he would get Tía on board, but damn!_

"Apparently his Club has an in with a doctor there and Kique got a recommendation for an orthopedic surgeon. He had Dr. McCall send all my files, blood work, everything to this new doctor. The hospital administrator has already started on the insurance paperwork and she even recommended a nearby rehab facility," Amelia recalled irritably. "In less than two weeks, Kique's carting my ass off to Charming for the surgery followed by three months of rehab somewhere in Modesto." Her wide brown eyes were snapping with anger.

"Why Modesto?"

"Because there isn't one in Charming and he intends on keeping tabs on me until I'm fully recovered," Amelia sneered. "Once my rehab is done and I'm walking again, _then _and only then he says he'll _let_ me come back home." She let out an exasperated breath. "You almost have me convinced, Marley, but you can stop feigning shock now. I know you were in on this."

Marlowe's head snapped back at the accusation. "Tía, as much as I wouldn't mind taking credit for this diabolical plot to get you better, my involvement ended when I told him you needed the surgery," she raised her left hand, her right over her heart. "I swear."

Amelia examined her daughter through narrow slits. "Maybe, but you're loving this all the same."

Marlowe tried and failed to keep her face expressionless, the trembling of her lips betraying the desire to laugh out loud. After coughing loudly several times, she managed to clear her throat. "No, Tía, that's not true," she said sympathetically. "But I'm not gonna lie and say that I'm not glad Hap's making you go through with it. You know what Dr. McCall said as well as I do. It will only get worse and more painful for you. You might even end up in a wheelchair, so go ahead and rail away at me all you like. Just know that once you're done, we are going to start making lists of everything we need to do to close up the house and pack our shit."

"_Our shit?_" Amelia said with a glimmer of hope. "You mean you'll go with me to Charming?"

Marlowe barely managed to stop rolling her eyes. "Of course I'm going with you! After everything you've been through without me, did you really think I was going to let you go through this alone too?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know what I thought, Marley," Amelia replied with a sigh as her clenched hands finally relaxed in her lap. "All I know is that I didn't want to go through another surgery. I managed to beat cancer, but I keep waiting for the day I start feeling like my old self again and that day never comes."

With a furrowed brow, Marlowe got up from the couch and walked over to crouch down on her haunches in front of the older woman. "I know that after the mastectomy and the chemo, the last thing you want to hear is that more surgery will make you feel better, but it will, Tía. The reason you don't feel like your old self now is because of your knee. You haven't been able to get down in the dirt to garden in ages and you can barely make it down the front stairs without help, much less putter around the house cleaning and redecorating like I know you're dying to."

"Marley, my knee is not as bad as you think," Amelia tried to reason. "My salve works wonders and I do have my good days, you know."

Marlowe let out a soft, yet exasperated sigh. As small girls growing up in Cuba, Amelia and Celia had spent many summers with their maternal grandmother on her farm. Their Abuelita had an undying faith in God and was a firm believer that He helped those that helped themselves. That being the case, Abuelita didn't care much for doctors, considering them godless charlatans. Instead, she practiced what is known now as holistic medicine, coupling her skills as an herbalist with fervent prayer. Amelia had learned much from her grandmother, unlike Ceci, who along with their father, believed it was all just backwater hocus-pocus.

Shortly before Abuelita passed away, she had given Amelia an old notebook bound in brown leather containing over a hundred handwritten recipes for healing salves and remedies made from herbs and other Cuban kitchen staples, along with a long list of ailments they treated as well as prayers to go along with them. When her family immigrated to the United States, the notebook had been one of the first things Amelia had carefully packed. To this day, it was probably her most treasured possession, along with her late husband's wedding ring.

Marlowe had to admit that while growing up under Amelia's watchful care she had witnessed and experienced for herself the curative qualities of herbal remedies. Tía had created many concoctions over the years that had cured Marlowe's upset stomachs, migraine headaches, rashes, and even sprains. This was one time, however, that relying solely on salves and potions could result in long-lasting and crippling effects.

Marlowe looked down at Amelia's swollen knee, clearly visible through the material of her dress slacks. "Is today one of them, Tía? Is today a good day?" She looked up again and into Amelia's eyes.

"No," Amelia relented with a sigh and a slight shake of her head. "Not today, querida. The salve _does_ help, though, especially with the swelling, but today, it's not doing much for the swelling or the pain," she allowed herself to admit.

"And knowing your stubborn Cuban ass, you're willing to continue living with the pain, but if you won't do it for yourself, at least do it for Hap. Because, let's face it, Tía, a big and bad biker he may be, but when you strip all that shit away, Happy ain't nothing but a Mama's boy." Marlowe grinned as Amelia chuckled. "Hey, it's true. Happy may be a macho pain in the ass, but he loves you dearly. You should have seen the relief on his face when I told him you were finally in remission. I honestly believe that anything other than good news would have destroyed him."

Amelia blinked away sudden tears. "Really?"

"After all he's done and is doing to get you healthy, is there really any doubt?" Marlowe laughed softly. "He lucked out with you for a mom and he knows it. He—_we_—want you around for a long, long time and not just because of your killer Arroz con Pollo."

Amelia's shoulders started to shake with laughter as she dashed away the tears running down her cheeks. "What about Ceci? How do you think she's going to react when she hears we'll be gone at least four months?" She asked worriedly.

"Are you kidding? Ceci will be so happy, you two will be doing cartwheels together down the street when you return. 'Sides, she won't have to worry about you climbing up on stools and shit anymore." Marlowe reached up to tuck a strand of Amelia's dark hair behind her ear. "So, are you in?"

Amelia nodded and smiled broadly. "I'm in!"

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Thursday, April 29, 2010**_

"Well," Marlowe smiled cheerfully. "This is a nice room."

Amelia shrugged her shoulders. "It's all right," she muttered petulantly, her eyes roaming around the room as she folded and unfolded her hands nervously on the hospital bed sheet that was covering her lap.

"It's more than 'all right', you uptight woman," Marlowe admonished. "Happy upgraded you to a private room—_out of his own pocket_! And you know what a cheap bastard he is," she said as the door opened.

"I'm not cheap," Happy said gruffly as he stepped inside. "I'm just mindful of wasteful spending." Bypassing Marlowe, he walked to the other side of the bed and dropped a kiss on his mother's forehead. "You a'ight, Ma?"

"I'm as well as can be expected for someone who was carted off from her home like a sack of potatoes," she replied as she reached a hand up to caress his cheek, giving it a light slap first. "The least you could have done was make Marley drive up here in my car instead of that death trap of hers."

"Where the fuck you been? You know no one can make that skinny bitch _do_ anything," Happy complained.

"Uh," Marlowe raised her hand, "I'm still in the room, people."

"Yeah, well, take the blame for this shit then," Happy admonished. "You're the one who didn't want to drive a foreign car."

Marlowe rolled her eyes. Ignoring Happy, she addressed Amelia. "Your son gave my car a tune up before we left and we made it in one piece, right?"

"Barely," Amelia reluctantly acknowledged. "I truly believed that instead of dying on the operating table, I was going to die on the road this morning."

"Oh my gawd, really?" Marlowe grumbled from her spot at the foot of the bed. "That wasn't going to happen, Tía. I have learned a thing or two about driving since I got my driver's license, you know."

"I'll be damned if I could tell," Happy chimed in snarkily. "I thought I was gonna have to bury the two of you today."

Marlowe bit back the scathing retort burning on her tongue, allowing the jerk a pass for managing to score a decent room for his mother. After all, the only thing that mattered was that they were here. Considering the monumental task that preparing to temporarily relocate had been, it was a small miracle that they had made it to Charming on schedule at all.

It had taken most of the previous week to get Amelia's affairs and her house in order. From suspending utilities, to cleaning out the refrigerator, arranging for the care of Amelia's garden and relocating all of her valuables to Ceci's house, Marlowe had done it all. Packing for Amelia had been a feat in and of itself as the older woman had wanted to bring practically everything and the kitchen sink with her. It had taken Ceci's browbeating to get Amelia on board with only taking the bare essentials to the hospital and the rehab facility. Marlowe, on the other hand, in spite of being back in Bakersfield for over a year, had managed to pack all of her belongings into her one bag. Old habits were hard to break and Marlowe was accustomed to traveling light.

On the night before their road trip to Charming and after feigning compliance with Happy's edict for almost two weeks, Amelia had broken down, admitting that the thought of leaving her sister behind was proving difficult. Ceci, who still had eight weeks left before school would be out for the summer, had eased her sister's mind by promising that she already had her plan set for joining Amelia in Modesto. She had secured a long-term rental in a nearby hotel so she could serve as her sister's companion, giving Marlowe what was sure to be a well-deserved break during the remaining weeks of rehabilitation.

"Stop being an ass and tell us how you managed to score such a nice room for Tía," Marlowe eyed her brother her arms crossed over her chest.

Happy shrugged his shoulders. "Club connections," was all he was willing to give up.

"Well, I guess it's nice to know that Club of yours has some juice," Amelia replied. "I appreciate all you've done, Kique, but I still think I'd rather be back in Bakersfield."

"Too late for that shit, don'tcha think, Ma?" Happy groused. "Don't let the size fool you. It may be a small hospital, but it's a good one."

Generally speaking, Happy would have preferred to keep his family and his Club separate, but with Club business keeping him busy and unable to make frequent trips to Bakersfield, he had made an exception. Jax Teller had insisted on helping him out once Happy had opened up to him about his mother's situation.

"You're watching my back, brother," Jax had said as they sat in the Chapel. "I'll do anything I can to watch yours and I know having peace of mind concerning your Moms is a part of that. Believe me, I know you don't want a pissed off mother jerking on your chain," Jax had said with a grin. "Let me talk to Tara, see what she can do."

Happy was grateful for the offer and the doctor's assistance, even though he still found it hard to believe that Tara Knowles had returned to Charming and as a surgeon no less. Before transferring to the Tacoma Charter, Happy—like the rest of SAMCRO—had had his fill of the Jax and Tara angst-filled teenage saga, with most of the drama courtesy of Gemma Teller-Morrow. For the most part, the young lovers had been a wild pair, riding around Charming on Jax's bike and getting into all kinds of shit. Soon after getting patched in—and against the advice of his brothers—Jax had approached Happy about inking Tara with his crow.

Although he believed that the young woman was unlikely old lady material in spite of all the hanging around she did on the lot, Happy had no problem doing it. It wasn't his call to make, after all, even if he felt she was a little on the soft side. For the next month, however, Happy had to endure Gemma's hairy eyeball after she discovered he was the one responsible for putting the crow tat on Tara. It seemed that when it came to her son's girlfriend, Gemma shared Happy's opinion. Unlike Happy, though, Gemma was not shy about vocalizing it.

In the long run, it became clear that Gemma had nothing to worry about. The crow tat and what it signified to Jax had become meaningless as soon as Tara bailed for parts unknown. Only nineteen at the time, Jax had immersed himself in booze, weed and pussy for quite some time. It had taken Clay's mentoring and strong hand to pull Jax's head out of his own ass and back onto his shoulders, reminding him that even though the Club was his legacy, he had to earn his spot at the head of the table. As far as Happy was concerned, Jax was lucky he had his stepfather looking out for him like he had. To his way of thinking, no pussy should _ever_ bring a man down like that.

But the prodigal old lady had returned. Even though Happy had no opinion about Jax taking up with her again one way or another, Tara Knowles had come back to Charming with skills that had greatly benefited the Club. As Happy worked on a plan to get his mother the surgery she needed, he decided to open up to his new President in hopes that Jax would tap his old lady for a favor. Since the day of their release from Stockton, no one had seen Dr. Knowles on the lot, so Happy was surprised to hear that she had come through, recommending Dr. Gerald Baines to do his mother's knee replacement surgery at St. Thomas. She had set up all the particulars and had even used her connection with the hospital administrator to get his mother a private room.

He felt even further indebted to his President who had come through in granting him another favor which would save Happy some coin. He just had to make sure that everyone was on board with it and that nobody got bent out of shape due to the exception Jax had made on his behalf.

"The doc, he seemed a'ight," Happy turned to his sister. "What did you think about him?"

Marlowe shrugged her shoulders. "He certainly checks out," she replied, referring to her thorough check of Dr. Baines' credentials, finding no complaints or malpractice suits pending against him. "He's pleasant, friendly and easy on the eyes. I like him _aaaand_ I'm sure I'm not the only one who does," she teased.

"Aye, hush, hija, and stop trying to stir up shit," Amelia said airily, although her pink cheeks spoke volumes. "He was just being flirty to get my spirits up," she added. "And my spirits needed lifting so stop rolling your eyes at me, Kique," she admonished her son.

Just then, the door opened to reveal a young nurse. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but visiting hours will be over soon and we need to get our patient settled in. She has a big day tomorrow."

"Shit," Amelia mumbled as the young woman left. "I hate this part."

"Don't worry, Tía," Marlowe said as she hugged the older woman. "Hap and I will be here before your surgery, first thing in the morning and when it's all over, we'll be the first faces you see."

"You promise?"

"You know it," Happy replied as he bent over to kiss his mother. "I'll always have your back, Ma."

* * *

Looking at her watch again, Marlowe was a bat of an eyelash away from tapping her booted foot on the black top. It was almost dusk and she was growing impatient. After the long drive from Bakersfield and keeping Amelia company all day after checking into the hospital, she was tired of waiting while Happy fiddled with the Escort's engine in the dwindling light of day in St. Thomas' parking lot.

"Shit a brick, Hap," Marlowe groused as she propped her hip against the side of the car. "Can you fix it? I mean, you _are_ a mechanic, aren't ya?"

"Will you shut your yap and quit riding on my ass?" Happy's muffled voice rose as from underneath the hood. "Where did you get this piece of shit anyway?"

"Some used car dealership in Miramar."

"Well, I'd like to meet the man who sold it to ya and shake his hand for taking your know-it-all ass for a ride," Happy grunted as he finally came up for air, wiping his oily hands on a dark blue bandana.

"Gee, thanks, _big brother_," Marlowe retorted as she crossed her arms. "I guess we got lucky it decided to die here and not on the road. So, can you fix it?"

"Not here and not tonight. This heap of rusty junk needs several parts and some major work." Reaching into the pocket of his kutte, Happy withdrew his prepay.

"Who you calling?"

"None of your business. Just get your ass over to my bike and put on my helmet," Happy ordered after punching in a number and bringing the phone up to his ear. "It's time to get you home."

* * *

"You a'ight, bro?" Opie asked, the embers of his cigarette glowing in the near-dark.

"Not sure," Jax admitted as he pulled on the chains to lower the bay's rolling doors, thus bringing an end to another day of earning straight by fixing cages and bikes at T-M. The hard manual labor had been good for the new President of the Sons of Anarchy. It certainly kept his mind off of some shit.

The last ten days had seen much in the way of action for the Club. Having to make a special trip to Bakersfield in order to fix a snag with the guns—the theft of a crate of KG-9's by a group of ghetto babies while on Kozik's watch—had been a real pisser. After an interesting meet with the local fence, the guns had been retrieved and safely transported to the Club's new gun warehouse. Clay had finally managed to secure from Elliott Oswald an old storage site once used by Oswald Construction to house old clunkers and equipment on a gated piece of property only ten minutes from the Wahewa reservation. Despite the hiccup in Bakersfield, the Club was now well on its way to making the first delivery for the Galindo Cartel. Tig, Chibs, Juice and the Prospects were hard at work at the new warehouse building the crates to be labeled as containing "Automotive Parts", but in reality would be holding the Cartel's first shipment.

As was usually the case with him, Jax realized that when his life with the Club was working the way it should, it was his personal life that ended up taking some hits. On the home front, the last ten days had been something more akin to a cold war than a loving domestic partnership between him and his old lady. Avoiding frostbite, the only time Jax seemed to be home at all lately was to spend time with his son, crashing most nights at the Clubhouse.

Reluctantly taking his ultimatum to heart, Tara had decided to follow Jax's lead and let him decide when they would make their exit from Charming. As a result, shit was definitely off between them and Jax knew he was taking refuge in his dorm to avoid Tara's passive-aggressiveness. Their conversations were on the surface only, stilted and strained. Tara refused to discuss anything relating to the Club or its current situation.

With Tara's feelings about the Club and his association with and leadership of it, Jax now realized that it was for the best to keep her on the outside of life in the Clubhouse. As far as he was concerned, as long as she still remained married to the idea of leaving Charming, Tara couldn't be there for him 100%, so full disclosure was no longer on the table. If it had been for anyone but Happy, Jax would have never pressed Tara for her help in finding a qualified and competent surgeon for Amelia Lowman. It was clear that, although Tara had done her best to help with Happy's situation, she had done so with some reluctance on her part.

Now, as he stared at Opie, he wondered why it was that neither of them could seem to get their personal shit together.

Opie slapped a hand on his back. "Things a little twisted, huh?"

"You might say that," Jax replied as he pulled a cigarette from the front pocket of his T-M work shirt. "Either the relationship shit is okay and Club shit is fucked up or—"

"It's the other way around," Opie finished, lighting Jax's cigarette for him. "I know exactly how you feel, brother."

Married less than a month to Lyla, Opie couldn't remember the last time he felt genuine happiness. The ambivalent melancholy he was feeling had him steeped in guilt. Feeling like a rat bastard, Opie wasn't consumed by thoughts of his new bride, but by haunting memories of his late wife Donna and how happy they had been as newlyweds. Lyla tried, but as long as she continued sucking dick and eating pussy on film, Opie couldn't fully invest himself in their marriage. He loved Lyla, he knew he did, but sometimes when he caught himself looking at her when she was unaware of his presence, instead of his chest tightening like it still did when he thought of Donna, Opie couldn't stop the words "dirty whore" from reverberating through his mind.

Hearing the sound of familiar pipes, both brothers looked towards the still-open entrance to the lot and spotted a familiar biker.

"Looks like Hap's back," Opie announced after taking a deep drag from his cigarette. "And he's not alone."

In the darkness, Jax's blond eyebrows rose as he made out the shape of a female form plastered against his SAA's back, paying little attention to the tow truck driven by V-Lin that was hauling a beige Ford Escort. As Happy backed into his spot and parked his ride, the SAMCRO President watched with interest as the woman got off the bike, removing Happy's helmet and shaking out long trails of wavy hair, the color of which Jax was unable to determine in the darkness, even with the moon shining brightly in the clear night sky.

"Is that the girl helping Hap with his mother?" the VP wondered out loud. "The caregiver?"

"Must be," Jax said his voice barely audible as he watched Happy grab the young woman by her bicep and practically drag her, first over to the tow truck to retrieve a heavy-looking bag and then onward to the Clubhouse.

_Well, this ought to be interesting_, Opie smirked to himself as he noted the look of intrigued interest on his best friend's face as he eyed the tall and slender woman. _Very interesting indeed_!

* * *

Stomping his way through the Clubhouse, Happy ignored the greetings tossed his way by several hang-arounds playing pool and sitting at the bar. Marlowe barely had a second to take in her surroundings as Happy headed past the kitchen and an alcove in which a beautiful teal bike was on display before they both came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door about mid-way down the hallway.

About to open her mouth, Happy stopped both her words and her heart by training his nearly-black eyes on her. "Don't start," he warned as he let go of her arm and pulled the keys hanging from the chain attached to his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. Finding the right key without even looking, he opened the padlock and threw open the door.

"_Don't start_?!" Marlowe complained as she followed him inside after waiting for an invitation to enter that never came. "Hap, I thought you were taking me to a motel. I'm tired. I need a shower and a bed."

Dumping her back pack on the floor, Happy strode over to the door and closed it. "Shower," he said, pointing at a closed door on the other side of the room, which Marlowe assumed was an en suite bathroom, before directing her attention to the rumpled mess taking up most of the room. "Bed."

"Okay, you Neanderthal. I'm glad you're learning new words and all," Marlowe replied, a hand on her cocked hip. "But could you please put 'em in a sentence and tell me what that has to do with me?"

Happy ran a hand over his bald head. "This is where you're staying, smartass."

"_Tonight_?" Marlowe asked with mild trepidation.

"For the duration," Happy replied, somewhat smug. "Any more questions?"

Taken aback, Marlowe stopped glaring at Happy long enough to look around. The mid-sized room was simply outfitted with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a desk with a chair. "First of all," Marlowe turned to face Happy once again. "Where the fuck am I and whose room is this?"

"You're at the Clubhouse and this is my dorm," Happy replied. "Are we done 'cause after spending the day with you, I could use a drink?"

Marlowe sputtered angrily as words failed her. "Your dorm? _If_ I stay in your dorm, where are _you_ gonna stay?"

"_In my dorm_," Happy said, wagging his finger at her indicating that it was a bad idea for her to open her mouth. "I'm not always around and shit, so it's not a big fuckin' deal, Marlowe. I'll just crash on the floor when I have to. I just don't want you messing with my shit is all."

Marlowe blinked at him several times as she absorbed his plan for her accommodations. "Let me get this straight," she started, putting up a hand. "You go through all the trouble of setting Tía up at the hospital and rehab, not telling me shit until it's all set in stone, knowing there's no way I was letting her come here alone, yet you couldn't be bothered to hook me up with a place of my own? How goddamned cheap are you?!"

"An extended stay at a motel is gonna cost coin, which you ain't got. Your piece of shit cage just died and it's gonna cost to fix it. Again, coin you ain't got, so why shell out dough for a room when I have a perfectly good bed here?" Happy argued.

"Uh, maybe because I don't want to roll around on the cum sponge you call a bed," Marlowe nearly bellowed.

_All I want is my own space_, Marlowe whined to herself. _And n__ot being under Happy's foot_.

"Look, ain't being with Ma the reason you're here?"

"Yes, but—"

"No fuckin' buts, then," Happy griped. "You'll be down at the hospital most of the day anyway. All you need is a place to shower and sleep. Renting a motel room that's gonna sit empty half the time is _wasteful spending_."

'_Sides, I can keep a close eye on you if you're right under my nose._

Truth was, Happy wasn't too keen on cutting Marlowe loose in Charming. Women connected to SAMCRO had a way of ending up hurt around here—Donna, Luann, Gemma, Tara, just to name a few. Although Marlowe wasn't technically connected to the Club, she was his responsibility and with her getting out of the Navy in one piece, Happy was not about to let anything happen to her on his watch, especially with SAMCRO now in bed with the Cartel. Happy realized that he could probably save them both a lot of grief by just explaining this to Marlowe, but they still had a lot of unresolved shit to deal with first before he'd put his concerns for her out there like that.

Instead, he continued treating her with little regard to the fact that she had a mind of her own. "Just remember, Marley, my Clubhouse, my rules," he said sternly as he headed to the door. "I'm gonna pick us up some grub. Keep your ass in here until I tell you otherwise. _I mean it_."

Paying no attention to the heated growl aimed at his back, Happy closed the door behind him as he headed toward the main room. Before he came back with their food, he was going to take care of additional protection for Marlowe.

* * *

Doing his third and final set of curls with a 50 lb. barbell, Kozik watched as his right bicep flexed and retracted with his efforts.

_My ass may be pushing 50, but I'm probably in the best shape of my life_.

And in Kozik's mind, making the jump back to the mother charter had a lot to do with that. Having spent eight years with the Tacoma charter, Kozik had managed to do what he had considered the impossible—he had worked himself up to an officer position as the charter's Sergeant-at-Arms, bypassing other brothers who had been there longer. Kozik's commitment to the Club was unwavering and he loved his brothers unconditionally. Although thoughtful and introspective on occasion and not nearly as quick to pull the trigger on his Glock like some of his more volatile brothers, after over twenty-five years in the MC he knew how to handle his shit.

But over the years as the Tacoma charter had grown, Kozik found the collar of his kutte getting tighter around his neck. The camaraderie that he had experienced during his early days as a member in Charming had been the standard by which he had come to compare all other SOA charters. After suffering many years of melancholy and loneliness, Kozik had finally let himself acknowledge that Charming hadn't been just a place to rest his head. It had been his home.

Much to Lorca's surprise, Kozik relinquished his SAA patch and put a request in for transfer back to the mother charter. He had known that making the jump back to Charming wasn't going to be easy, especially with Tig still hating him enough to block his every attempt. In hindsight, Kozik couldn't really blame Trager for being such an ass after their fallout. But even with the bad blood still there, the truth was that he, Tig and Happy had a long history together and had once been a tight threesome. Kozik missed his Charming brothers and held onto the hope that with him taking the first step, he and Tig would one day reconcile.

So for the last fourteen months, Kozik had dedicated himself to helping out SAMCRO in any way he could and slowly but surely, despite the fact that so many were gone from the table, Kozik started feeling the true essence of brotherhood that he had been sorely missing. Working closely with Opie, Chibs, and Piney had been the challenge he needed and wasn't getting in such a large charter like Tacoma. Even with the Club's matriarch and lovable tyrant Gemma holding sway, working in the garage once again gave him a sense of purpose.

Finally content again for the first time in years, Kozik had been motivated to act on taking control of two out of his three remaining vices. He had quit smoking and cut back significantly on his drinking. As long as he kept his junk wrapped, however, he saw no need to cut down on the pussy. And since he was no longer pickling his insides on a daily basis, he usually woke up without a hangover. On those days, he would use the quiet time before the garage opened to get back into shape in the weight room. Other times, like now, he'd hit the gym just to clear his head.

In spite of the fact that Tig continued to bust his ass relentlessly about taking the pussy way back into SAMCRO while he was locked up, Kozik knew that they had moved passed the Missy incident. It was almost like they had picked up their friendship where they had left off and even though shit had gone sideways since his brothers had returned from Stockton, there was no doubt in Kozik's mind that Charming was where he belonged.

As a recovering addict, Kozik felt like a moral degenerate for helping the Club traffic drugs for the Galindo Cartel. In retrospect, he felt he had gotten what he deserved when a small group of ghetto kids had gotten the best of him by boosting the Club's truck containing part of the Cartel's first gun shipment. Maybe it had been his own guilt for voting for the Cartel deal that let him get hustled into playing a pick-up game in the alleyway behind Happy's mother's house. Had Jax kicked his ass like he wanted to or stripped him of his patch, Kozik knew deep down he would have deserved it for getting involved in the dirty business that was drug running. Once he got past his guilt, Kozik realized how epically he had let his brothers down. After making amends with Jax, Kozik was determined not to let _anything_ go wrong on his watch ever again.

"So this is where you've been fuckin' hiding," a gravelly voice said from the doorway.

Kozik looked up and grinned as Happy walked into the makeshift gym. "Yo, bro, you're back. How's your Ma?"

Happy sat down on a low bench opposite his brother. Only a few knew of the circumstances that had led Happy to head for Bakersfield the day before and Kozik had been one of them. "She's a'ight. All settled in her room at St. Thomas."

"That was nice of Tara to help you out like that," Kozik replied as he got up to return the barbell to its proper place on the rack. Grabbing a towel that was hanging on a low bench, he mopped his sweaty face.

"Yeah, she did a'ight," Happy admitted, but he hadn't searched his brother out to talk about the Club's doctor. "Look bro, I'm gonna need you to do me a solid."

Cocking his head to the side, Kozik took in the serious expression on his brother's face. "Sure, Hap. Whatever ya need."

Happy ran a hand over his gleaming head. "You remember Marlowe, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure I do," he admitted, using the towel to masquerade the somewhat lecherous grin on his face.

_She's a little hard to forget, bro_.

Despite the fact that they had had a very brief encounter, Kozik had been surprised by how quickly the two of them had felt a connection. There was just something about her and that something had been nagging at him ever since he had left Bakersfield. Years of past drug use had probably fried his brain, but Kozik couldn't escape the feeling that they had met before, memories of that encounter tugging at the back of his mind like a dream quickly forgotten upon waking.

"What do you need me to do, bro?" he asked.

"She's here."

"Here? In Charming?" Kozik questioned nonplussed.

"_In my dorm_," Happy answered. "She came to look after Ma while she's in the hospital and goes through rehab. She'll be here for a few months."

_Well shit._

"And she's gonna be hanging around _the Clubhouse_?"

"Yeah. Here's the thing. Marlowe," Happy paused to think over his words carefully. "She ain't exactly just a caregiver. She's kinda like family."

"Family," Kozik repeated cautiously. "You mean like she's your old—"

"Hey! Get _that_ thought the fuck out of your head, bro," Happy nearly growled. "When the fuck have you ever known me to need or want an old lady?"

Kozik held his hands up defensively. "Hey, just checking. I mean, no disrespect, I may have a couple of years on you, but I ain't dead yet. That's a fine piece of—"

"Finish that sentence and you'll find that old ass of yours in the ring _with me_ tonight," Happy's voice was coated with menace.

"Keep your shirt on, Hap. I didn't mean nothing by it, just acknowledging shit, is all," Kozik said sheepishly. "So . . . if she's not your old lady, she's—"

"My sister, and no," Happy said as Kozik's eyebrows nearly shot up into his hair line. "We're not related by blood. She's kinda adopted, just not legally."

Kozik leaned back to take in his brother's expression and found that he was only barely able to hold back a grin. It was apparent from his posture and facial expression that Happy was daring him to say shit about it, so he decided to play it down.

"That's cool, Killah. Some mothers are sentimental and shit. Can't help but pick up strays or something like that, right?"

"Something like that, yeah," Happy replied. It had actually been the other way around. He had brought Marlowe home one day and dumped her on his mother. Happy thought that at best Amelia would look after her temporarily. Considering her own upbringing being bounced around from relative to relative, he should have known that his soft-hearted mother would have no problem taking the young girl in. At first, his mother thought that Marlowe was his. However, even after finding out that the young girl was not her granddaughter, Amelia still had no problem giving her a home and had finished raising her. "She's been away for a while, but came back home right before I went inside."

"So she stuck around to take care of your Ma," Kozik commented with a grin. "I ain't surprised. Those who serve Uncle Sam know what's important and they take care of their own," he said. Noticing his brother's frown, Kozik's brow wrinkled in confusion. "This tension I picked up between the two of you, it have anything to do with her being in the Navy?"

The look that flashed across Happy's face—a combination of anger and hurt—was the only response Kozik needed. After all, anyone who knew Happy knew of his general disdain for anyone who made a living wearing a uniform—ironic considering that MC by-laws dictated that members must wear their kuttes at all times, but whatever.

Although Happy reserved the bulk of his hatred and mistrust for law enforcement, he certainly didn't shy away from making his anti-war sentiment known in the Clubhouse, in spite of the number of members who were veterans. Now, at least to Kozik, it all made sense. Happy, the least sentimental of his brothers, didn't do worry and concern. Those were feelings a hardened outlaw like him couldn't afford, or so he believed. The Unholy One was definitely not one for wearing his heart on his sleeve and it only made sense that Happy would deny himself those feelings only to have them manifest as hostility. In Hap's case, from what Kozik had witnessed, his concern for his sister had exhibited itself as mean bullying.

"Yeah," Happy started quietly. "That shit wasn't for Marley, but she's always been too hard-headed to listen to anyone but the voices in her own head," he snarked, forcing a chuckle out of Kozik. And then, against character, Happy continued, sharing more than he meant to. "I thought that her coming to me with the idea of signing up meant what I had to say mattered. I tried talking her out of it, but I got sucker-punched about a week later when she packed her shit and headed off for recruit training. I didn't talk to her again until about a week before I went into Stockton."

Kozik was bewildered. "Bro, you didn't talk to your sister for—"

"Ten years," Happy replied.

"Shit, hold a grudge much?" Kozik shook his head. "You're worse than Tig."

"I had my reasons," Happy defended himself. "You know what? Fuck you, Koz. I'm not here to explain shit to you about me and Marlowe. I need you to do me a favor."

"Sure, bro," Kozik responded without hesitation. "What is it?"

"I need you to keep an eye on her, especially when I'm not around," Happy stated. "She's not exactly crazy about living at the Clubhouse, but she's broke so this is where she's staying for now. Whenever I'm not around, especially when I'm on the road, I'm placing her under your protection. You understand what I'm saying, right?"

"Of course, Hap," Kozik replied. "Why would you even ask?"

"Because I ain't blind," Happy said sternly. "She may be hot, but she ain't a croweater and I expect my brothers not to treat her like one, especially you."

"Shit, Hap. That's a little fucked up. Who do you take me for? Tig?" Kozik said indignantly. "Not only do I respect you too much to press up on your little sister, but she's young enough to be my own kid."

"Like that shit's ever stopped you or anyone in this Clubhouse before," Happy said knowingly.

"Whoa, you can trust me, bro." Kozik stood up. "So basically, I'm on babysitting duty whenever you're not around. I can handle that."

"Yeah, introduce her around and make sure she doesn't step on any toes. She don't know shit about life in an MC and is pretty handy at getting herself into trouble, so just keep an eye on her, especially around Gemma," Happy explained as Kozik nodded. "Ma's scheduled for surgery tomorrow, so I'll be at the hospital with Marlowe until it's time for Church. I really appreciate you doing this for me, brother."

"You know it, bro." The two of them hugged it out before Happy pulled away.

"One more thing," Happy added. "My history with Marlowe, that's my business so keep it to yourself. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Kozik saluted Happy, who opened the door and walked down the hall. Grabbing his t-shirt, Kozik pulled it over his head as he headed for his dorm.

_Something tells me that getting to know Happy's little sister is gonna be one hell of a ride, whether Hap likes it or not._

* * *

**A/N: I want to thank everyone that submitted reviews for Chapters 9, 10, and 11. You really made my long holiday weekend extra special. Now, please don't slack off and keep 'em coming, and get ready for the introduction of ****Jaxlowe**** (special thanks to reviewer Kerry for the moniker), which is just around the corner.**

**Hugs, Harlee.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

**A/N: You guys are amazing! So far, I have received an unbelievable 22 reviews for Chapter 12. Many of them were from regular reviewers, which I love, but quite a few were from new readers as well and I want to thank you and I hope you'll continue weighing in on each chapter. I appreciate all of your insightful comments on the characters and plot, but especially your desperate pleas for Jaxlowe! Some of your reviews had me ****rotf****lmao!**

**Now, before you start Googling me in an attempt to track me down and kick my behind, please note that this chapter i****s**** heavy once again with character development. As many of you have already pointed out, I am slowly revealing bits and pieces of Marlowe's life in an attempt to make her a well-rounded and believable character ****who is ****now a part of this AU SOA world. There's also a bit more ****back story on ****Happy, Tig, and Kozik, so PLEASE just a little more patience 'cause next Tuesday the two worlds known as Jax and Marlowe will finally collide! **

**In fact, because I am taking my sweet ass time in bringing these two together, I will make it up to you. This was supposed to be my last week posting two chapters, but because you're trusting me in the way I'm telling this story, I will continue posting two chapters a week for the next TWO weeks, so please keep the reviews coming.**

**See? Never let it be said that Ms. Quinn ain't got no love for ya!**

**Hugs, Harlee**

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Friday, April 30, 2010**_

Now that she had been reduced to living life as a fuckin' hobo with no place of her own to lay her head, Marlowe realized that it was probably a blessing that she never slept more than a few hours a day anyway. Not that she had expected it to be otherwise, but sharing a dorm room with Happy wasn't as easy as he had claimed it would be.

Pissed off by his cavalier attitude about her privacy issues, Marlowe had ignored the biker when he returned to the dorm her first night in Charming with the food he had picked up from a local diner. Handing her a large and greasy meatball sub and a bottle of beer, Happy had ordered her to eat and then go to bed, before stomping out of his room, presumably to return to the party already in progress.

Shoving aside the beer and barely managing to eat a quarter of the sandwich, Marlowe had resigned herself to the inevitable. After taking a long hot shower and wrapping herself in a towel, she had carefully inspected the bed. Despite her fears that it was likely infested with God only knew what, she found that it was reasonably clean. Changing into a fitted tank top and a pair of old PT sweats, Marlowe had settled in with a paperback novel for what she knew would be another sleepless night.

The next morning found her waking up abruptly, yet bleary-eyed and drenched in a cold sweat. Having finally passed out shortly before five o'clock in the morning, the rising sun had filtered through the blinds a little over an hour later, waking her up from a fitful slumber. Rising to find herself alone, she had taken another shower to wash off her night sweats and was dressed and waiting when her brother finally stumbled into his room, stinking of booze, cheap perfume and even cheaper pussy.

"Jesus Christ!" Marlowe complained, pinching her nose with one hand while waving the other around in an attempt to dispel the stench he had dragged in. "Do I even have to guess what you were up to last night?"

"I was getting drunk and laid, repeatedly," Happy replied with a smirk. "Jealous?"

"Not really, stinky. Glad you had yourself a good ol' time, but you do we realize that we have to be at the hospital in like half an hour, right?" she asked irritably.

"I know what shit I've got to get done, Marley," Happy had sneered before heading to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he did. "Just get your ass outside. We're leaving in fifteen."

Grumbling under her breath, Marlowe had grabbed her backpack and jacket and walked out the door, heading towards the Main Room. Accustomed to hanging around hard-drinking and hard-living soldiers and sailors, what she saw upon entering Ground Zero hadn't surprised her, but it did have her raising both eyebrows.

"Shit," she breathed, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She was far from being a prude, but judging by the amount of skin on display by many of the passed-out women underneath and on top of men wearing kuttes, last night had been nothing short of a goddamn orgy. She felt sorry for anyone who got stuck with clean-up duty because God only knew what they would find among the debris of empty beer and liquor bottles and hastily discarded clothing items.

Luckily for Marlowe, her time spent in captivity at the Clubhouse had been quite limited with Amelia's surgery scheduled for that morning. The surgery itself had taken about two hours and, thankfully, everything had gone smoothly. Amelia had spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon in recovery before being moved back to her room.

Dr. Baines was pleased with the outcome and extremely optimistic about the results. Barring any complications or infections, Amelia would leave the hospital for the rehab facility in one or two weeks at the most. With plenty of decent drugs to help her cope with the pain, Amelia had been in and out of it for most of the weekend with Marlowe never leaving her side. In spite of the long scar held together by dozens of steri-strips, less than twenty-four hours later, the swelling on Amelia's right knee was gone.

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Tuesday, May 3, 2010**_

With Marlowe's car in desperate need of major repairs to get it running again, it would be out of commission for the foreseeable future. Until Happy could find the parts and the time needed to work on it, Marlowe was forced to use her own two legs to take her to and from St. Thomas whenever her brother wasn't available. It was a brisk thirty minute walk to the hospital, which Marlowe didn't mind. With the steady diet of fast food Happy was providing her, she could use the exercise. As a matter of fact, Marlowe had taken to getting an earlier start than usual in the mornings in order to go on five-mile runs around Charming before she had to be at the hospital. The crisp early spring morning air did much to clear her mind and center her restless spirit, giving her focus throughout her long days by Amelia's side.

Amelia was grateful to have Marlowe with her in Charming. If not, with Happy so busy during the day, she would have been forced to spend the first two weeks of her recovery bedridden in a strange town all alone. Usually, Happy only had time to stop by for quick visits in the afternoon, returning near the end of visiting hours to say goodnight and give his sister a ride back to the lot.

With nothing to distract them, like housekeeping or the garden, Marlowe and Amelia found themselves sharing intimate details of their lives. The fact that Amelia had a private room all to herself made opening up about intensely personal matters that much easier. Sitting in the uncomfortable chair next to her surrogate mother's bedside while drinking pitifully weak black coffee, Marlowe had opened up about some of the darker aspects of her time in the Navy. She had never expected, however, that by doing so, Amelia would feel compelled to open up and share as well. Surprisingly, instead of re-sharing stories about life in Cuba or her first years in the United States, Amelia had opened up about Happy and how he had ended up in Charming.

"It was my fault, more than anything," Amelia started.

Marlowe chuckled. "I find that hard to believe, Tía."

"Don't," the older woman advised. "Had I taken my ass home like I usually did, instead of stopping to see my boy at that tattoo place he used to work in—you remember, right, that dump on Spaulding?"

Marlowe nodded. "I remember."

"Well, I shouldn't have stopped there that night. Kique always warned me that the area was rough, especially at night, but I had worked in the neighborhood for years. Almost everyone knew me from the emergency room. I didn't think twice about it. Between the tattoo parlor and his other job as a mechanic at that motorcycle place, I hardly ever got to see him. I just wanted to make sure he was doing okay, see if he needed some money to eat," Amelia explained, discreetly wiping away a tear. "That night, a fight broke out between Kique and some redneck trailer park trash from Oildale who had been waiting to get some work done. He said some really nasty shit to me and Kique lost it. The dirt bag was kicked out and told not to come back. After, Kique ordered me to go home and I did. I walked. I could've taken the bus, but I loved to walk, especially after a long day at work. I didn't see the redneck following me home."

This was the last thing Marlowe had expected to hear. "Oh my God! What happened?" she asked with apprehension in her voice. "Did he—"

Amelia reached over to pat her hand. "No, querida, it didn't get that far. Almost, but not quite. Kique's sixth sense must have kicked in because he left the shop to make sure I got home okay. The redneck never even heard him coming. He was too busy trying to get me out of my clothes. My son beat the living shit out of him. Threw him out the living room window and dragged his ass out into the street. The neighbors heard the commotion, but they had no idea what was going on. If they had, no one would have called the cops. A couple of Kique's old friends from the neighborhood managed to pull him off the guy and by the time the cops got there, he was unconscious and bleeding badly. They didn't hesitate in arresting Kique."

"Shit!"

"Yes, and my boy was ass deep in it," Amelia agreed. "The man survived, but in spite of the attack on me, Kique was charged with aggravated assault and denied bail. He was in Chino for five months awaiting trial, but the bastard who tried to rape me was a skinhead and that prison was full of them."

Marlowe's eyes met Amelia's. "The Sons, they protected him on the inside," she guessed and Amelia nodded.

"Kept him alive through the trial. Gracias a Dios, the jury wasn't as closed-minded as that Prosecutor. Kique was acquitted, and after he got out, he went to Charming."

"And became a Son," Marlowe finished.

"After some initiation period, yes. The next time I saw him, he was sporting that thing he calls a kutte and that tattoo around his neck. And I knew the minute I laid eyes on him that he had killed for me." Amelia watched her surrogate daughter's eyes widen, first with surprise at Amelia's nonchalance and then with grim acceptance.

"He killed the skinhead, didn't he?" she asked quietly.

Amelia gave a slight nod. "Kique never told me. He didn't have to. I just _knew_. All he said was that as long as he wore that kutte and had his brothers backing him up, I would never have anything to worry about ever again. As a mother, hearing that and knowing what it meant broke my heart. I hadn't struggled to raise him by myself so that he would grow into that kind of man, but as a woman—a victim—I was glad that my son had done what he did to protect me, and that the Club that had taken him in and protected him had helped him do it."

"You know this for sure?"

"I do," she replied. "And I've accepted it because he's my son and I love him."

Marlowe nodded, but was silent. Knowing Happy, she could understand his need to kill the scumbag who had attacked his mother. With his Club supporting him, the situation was, on a personal level, very familiar for her.

"Marley," Amelia started, startling Marlowe out of her deep thoughts, "I'm telling you all this because I thought you should know who these people are now that you are in close contact with them. They protected my son and I will be forever grateful for that. But they also put him on the path to the life he is living now. That's why you need to protect yourself by steering clear of them. After all you've been through—"

Marlowe sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Okay, I get it, Tía, but there's no need to get into all that shit now."

"Maybe you should. Not with me, but with Happy. You two are so much alike, maybe he won't be as judgmental as you think—"

"You know him as well as I do, Tía, so why are you trying to convince me of something you don't believe yourself?" she said with some exasperation. "I already know how that conversation will go and so do you. I'm not in the mood for any of Happy's pearls of wisdom, including 'I fuckin' told you so'."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "The truth always finds a way of making itself known, hija. All I'm saying is that it is always better to be the one to bring it to light, instead of having it come out in a way that won't go over well with your brother."

"I'll cross that bridge if I ever get to it. Right now, I don't see any reason to divulge to Hap just how fucked up my life has become," Marlowe stood up. "I'm gonna go grab some lunch. I'll bring you back something."

As she exited the room, Amelia shook her head wryly before picking up the remote lying in her lap. "Marley always likes to tempt shit. Hopefully, I won't be around the day her brother loses his."

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Wednesday, May 4, 2010**_

Having had yet another argument with Happy about the lack of her own accommodations, Marlowe was unwilling to share Happy's dorm, especially when he was around. It also didn't help that Happy hadn't had an opportunity to look at her car or order whatever parts were needed. If the damn piece of shit wasn't so beat up and the back seat so uncomfortable, she would have preferred sleeping in her car, a reasonable alternative than having to stay at the Clubhouse.

Instead, Marlowe appropriated for herself the small couch in the Main Room—that is, whenever it was available. She was pretty much doing what she could to stay out of everyone's way, erecting a wall between herself and anyone who tried to breach it. Surprisingly, that had been easier than she had expected and it soon became clear that Happy had probably warned his brothers to stay out of her way, and most did.

Except Kozik.

With Happy suddenly announcing that he was heading out of town for a few days with some of the Club, Marlowe had been doing her best to keep a low profile on the lot, spending most of her time with Amelia at the hospital. By the time Wednesday rolled around, she had become quite adept at staying off everyone's radar.

It was now early evening and it was surprisingly quiet in the Clubhouse. In spite of having the dorm all to herself with Happy out of town, Marlowe wasn't in the mood to hole up in there alone. Venturing into the Main Room, she had only the quiet murmur of bluesy music emanating from the jukebox and the hum of low conversation of a few hang-arounds to greet her. Seeing that "her" couch was unoccupied, Marlowe made a beeline to settle comfortably in a corner with a book in hand. It had been determined by one patch, however, that the Clubhouse's newest resident should not be alone that night.

"Well, look who finally decided to come out from under her rock," a jovial voice said.

Marlowe raised an eyebrow, putting a finger to hold her place in her book as Kozik plopped down next to her. "Well, well, surfer dude. We meet again."

The ex-Marine flashed an engaging grin. "I'm not into riding boards. Just bikes."

"And on occasion, broads," she added snarkily.

"Oh most definitely," he grinned. "You offering?"

"Sorry, jarhead," Marlowe laughed as she shook her head. "I was just making an observation."

"Good, 'cause I would definitely take you up on the offer, sweetheart, without a doubt. Shit, I'm sure we'd make some beautiful babies too," Kozik teased flirtatiously. "But I've grown attached to living and Hap wouldn't hesitate to deprive me of the pleasure." His grin started to fade, however, as he noted Marlowe's heated expression.

"Did he warn you to stay away from me?" she demanded incredulously. "Because Happy Lowman is not the boss of me and I _will_ fuck whoever I want."

"Nah, girl, don't take it the wrong way," Kozik laughed as the young woman rolled her eyes. "However much I would _love_ letting you show him who's the boss by volunteering my services, me and Hap, we go a long ways back. He's my Club brother, but I love him like he's blood. His family is _my_ family and I have too much respect for him to cross that line."

Feeling like an idiot, Marlowe felt her cheeks flush. "Shit, I just totally sounded like a spoiled, moody teenager, didn't I?"

"Maybe a little, but don't sweat it, sweetheart," Kozik replied with a wink. "I get the frustration. I have an older brother myself who can't accept that a four year-age difference don't mean shit when you're a grown man. I can relate."

"Oh Jesus Christ! You mean to tell me this shit will never change?" Marlowe cast her grey eyes heavenward as if pleading for mercy.

"Nope, probably not." Kozik propped his feet up on the low coffee table in front of them. "That is one overprotective son of a bitch. All these years sharing a patch and I had no idea Killah had a baby sister."

"_Killah_?" Marlowe repeated with a smirk.

"Uh, yeah," Kozik stammered and coughed. "Just a nickname. You know, short for . . . 'lady killer'."

Marlowe wiggled her eyebrows knowingly and smiled, nodding. "_Riiiight_. I get it."

Kozik shrugged, moving on. "I can understand why he'd want to keep family shit on the down low," he paused, accepting a beer from a nubile croweater and flashing her a smile of thanks before waving her away. "So I definitely wasn't expecting to run into a 'little sister' the first time I'm in his mother's house. Knowing his Ma's medical issues, I just assumed that you were—"

" 'The caregiver', " Marlowe made air quotes with her index fingers, her dainty nose scrunched up in distaste. If it were socially acceptable to just spit on the floor, she would.

"Yeah, something like that."

Deeming the conversation a lot more interesting than what she was reading, Marlowe tossed the book onto the coffee table. Cocking her head to the side, she eyed the handsome patch. "So what exactly _do _you know? About me, that is."

"Not much," Kozik replied honestly. "Hap's not really much of a talker and he didn't really have time to download a lot of shit. Just the basics—that he's known you since you were a kid, that his Moms kind of adopted you and took you in."

Marlowe nodded suspiciously with pursed lips. "And that's it?"

"He did mention that you haven't been around for a while," Kozik added hesitantly. "I kinda got the vibe that you two haven't spoken much since you joined the Navy."

Marlowe chuckled sarcastically. "_Much_? How about not at all in ten years? Shit, he can barely bring himself to growl a few words at me now."

"Did he ever tell you why?" Kozik asked. Marlowe shook her head and it was clear to Kozik that fact made her sad. "Hap's a complicated guy. He may not be big on displays of emotion, but I'm sure he loves you. He wouldn't put you under my protection when's he out of town if he—" he stopped mid-sentence as one of Marlowe's eyebrows arched significantly.

"Son of a bitch! He put you on babysitting duty, didn't he? That's why you're stuck here on the couch with me when you could be face down in red bush mountain over there?" she said, referring to the red-headed croweater that had brought him the beer and was in the process of blowing Kozik in her mind from across the room.

Kozik choked on his beer. "Shit, almost forgot what dirty potty mouths you sailors have."

"_Don't_ change the subject. I'm right, aren't I? He's making you look after me while he's gone. What does he think I'm gonna do this time, run off and join the circus?"

"First of all, sweetheart, nobody makes me do shit I don't wanna do, 'kay?" Kozik pointed his beer bottle at her. "Second, I don't mind. I could be doing worse things than sitting here with a pretty girl shootin' the shit. 'Sides, we kinda got interrupted the first time we met. I know you're a Corpsman," he said, indicating her right forearm. "But you never told me who you served with."

Marlowe looked at the patch for a long moment. It was the first time in a long time that anyone had asked her about herself, other than Amelia. The first time in a long time that anyone seemed genuinely interested in hearing about her career in the military. Not even Happy had cared enough to ask her about a huge chunk of her life that was now suddenly gone. The fact that a total stranger cared enough to ask tore her heart to pieces. Marlowe opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't interested in talking about that part of her life and was stunned to the core by her response.

"I served with the 1st Battalion 5th Marines."

"Get the fuck outta here! Are you shitting me?" he exclaimed with a cackle.

Regaining her composure, Marlowe smiled. "I shit you not. Why all the excitement?"

"Because _I_ served with the 5th back in '78."

Marlowe narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. "You're lying," she accused good-naturedly.

"Nope, straight outta Camp Pendleton. And not just me." Kozik put his beer down. "Yo, Tiggy! Bring your ass over here a minute."

"_Whaaaat_?!" came a plaintive wail. Sitting at one of the tables clear across the room, Tig had a buxom blond croweater sitting astride his lap. "Don't you see I kinda got my hands full right now?" he asked as he tweaked one of the woman's breasts.

"That shit ain't going nowhere, asshole. Come on over and meet a 'brother'," Kozik ordered.

After shoving the girl off of his lap, Marlowe watched as the crazy-haired biker she had noticed on the lot make his way to the couch. Dropping down into the armchair across from Marlowe, she watched as his many rings glinted in the light of the ceiling lamp.

"You losing it, shithead. What brother? All I see is your tired ass trying to push up on a newbie," Tig declared, casting an appreciate glance over Marlowe. "How you doin', doll? Why don't you come and sit on Uncle Tiggy's lap and hook up with a real man?" He threw a wink in her direction.

"Yo, keep it in your pants, Don Juan Douchebag," Kozik wrapped a beefy, protective arm around Marlowe's shoulders. "This ain't no sweetbutt you're mindfucking. _This_ is our 'brother'. She's also Hap's little sister. You know, the one I told you about."

"What?! I didn't know _this_ is Hap's sister. All you told me was that he had one and that I should steer clear or Killah would yank my nuts through my ears. Now that I know, I can be a good little patch," Tig grinned as he eyed the attractive woman. "But I'll risk my nuts and be bad if you want me to, baby—" Catching himself Tig did a double-take and eyed Kozik. "What do you mean she's our brother?"

"Marley here served, man, with the 5th, our old battalion."

"Are you shitting me?" Tig cocked his head at Marlowe.

"Nope." Grinning impishly, Marlowe cupped her hands around her mouth and cut loose with a loud "Geronimo!"—the Battalion's nickname—drawing the attention of everyone in the Main Room as Kozik and Tig responded with the Marine battle cry, "Oorah!"

"Well, shit, that's what I get for getting my ass kicked out before the good looking broads started joining up," Tig grinned lasciviously before holding out a hand. "Welcome home, brother."

For a moment, Marlowe was afraid to reach out and take the offered handshake. It had been a long time since she felt a part of a brotherhood that the Marines had become for her. Forcing herself, she extended her arm, taking his hand in hers with a hard grip and found that it wasn't so hard to do after all.

"Thanks, brother," she responded with a genuine smile.

"So what were you doing with the 5th?" Kozik asked.

"On my last TOD, I served as a Fleet Marine Force Corpsman, 3rd Platoon, Golf Company, Regimental Combat Team 6 in Fallujah," Marlowe replied. "Another Corpsman and I were responsible for the medical needs of 38 marines."

"Shit, a Corpsman, huh?" Tig asked intrigued. "How many tours did you do?"

"Three. I did my first in Iraq before getting my FMF rating. The last two I served in Afghanistan."

"Where didja go through basic?" Kozik wanted to know. "Up at the Lakes?"

Marlowe nodded. "Yup, the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. Did my medical training at the Naval Hospital Corps School on site there too. After returning from eighteen months in Baghdad, my CO recommended me for Marine Force Warfare Specialist training and shipped my ass off to Camp Pendleton," Marlowe sighed. "_That_ shit was a gold-plated son of a bitch to get through. Don't know how, but I made it."

"No doubt," Tig said quietly impressed.

"And then the real fun started when I deployed with the Marines to Afghanistan and pulled two tours back-to-back," she explained, wistfully recalling her accomplishments, becoming the second female corpsman ever to attain a Fleet Marine Force rating.

_Only to lose it all because of one stupid mistake_, she thought bitterly.

"I bet you saw a lot of shit go down," Tig noted thoughtfully quietly, surprising Kozik by the amount of respect he was showing Marlowe, _a woman_.

Marlowe nodded somberly. "Too much," she admitted. Pausing briefly, she ran her hands through her hair. "What about you two? Did you serve together?"

"Unfortunately," Kozik replied with a dramatic eye roll.

"Shut the fuck up, Kozy. Meeting me was the best thing that ever happened to your sorry ass," Tig claimed with very little modesty. "I met this asshole at a fuckin' bar off base in Okinawa. Lance Corporal Herman Kozik was in the process of having his ass handed to him—"

Marlowe snickered. "_Herman_?!" she cried out, but was nearly drowned out by Kozik's bellow of protest.

"No, no, no! That's bullshit, man!" Kozik was yelling at Tig. "I had my shit under control the whole time!"

Tig flipped him off. "Get the fuck outta here! Your next stop would have been the infirmary had I not stepped in and you know it!" he shot back.

"Yeah, and I haven't been able to get rid of your ass since," Kozik waved him away.

"Consider yourself lucky. If not for me, what would you have done with yourself after getting discharged?" Tig shrugged his shoulders with some pride as he addressed Marlowe. "I introduced him to SAMCRO, helped the asshole patch in and he's been a fuckin' thorn in my ass ever since."

Motioning for his blond croweater to bring them over some beers, Tig continued regaling Marlowe with stories of his time making Kozik's life hell in Okinawa. Time seemed to pass by seamlessly as the trio shared their experiences of their time with the U.S. Marines. As dusk came and went, other Club members as well as hang-arounds started trickling in. With loud music and boisterous partying going on around them, they continued talking, oblivious to their surroundings as the conversation went from light-hearted and funny to heavy and painful, with Marlowe sharing tidbits of what fighting a modern war was like in a post-9/11 world. Never really knowing who the enemy was, it was easy to lose focus on humanity as a whole. In danger of having the beer and their easy camaraderie loosen her tongue further, Marlowe decided that it was time to call it a night.

Using the two croweaters that had been giving her the hairy eyeball as they circled Tig and Kozik throughout their bull session as a diversion, Marlowe rose, grabbing her book from the coffee table as the two women all but crawled into the men's laps.

"I appreciate the distraction, boys, but I think it's time I turned in," Marlowe said. "It was a good time."

"That it was," Tig said, the blond with huge tits nibbling on his ear. "Next time, don't be such a stranger," he threw over his shoulder before grabbing the croweater's face in one massive hand, squeezing her cheeks and puckering her lips before diving in for a deep, wet kiss.

Marlowe smirked as she headed towards Happy's dorm.

Breaking eye contact with the redhead making dirty promises for a very good night, Kozik looked at Marlowe's retreating back before calling out, "You have a good night, _Doc_."

* * *

**Glossary**

**Gracias a Dios: Thank God**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Friday, May 7, 2010**_

Looking forward to washing off six hours-worth of grime from his sweaty body, Jax threw the oily rag he had wiped his hands down with onto the worktable and headed towards the Clubhouse. After he showered, Jax was looking forward to grabbing a bite to eat and catching a few hours of shuteye before Church. It had been two days since he last went home to Tara and he had not been sleeping well at night. Now, after working out his frustrations in the garage since early morning, he was starting to feel the exhaustion creep in.

With the exception of Tig, Bobby, and Juice, most of his brothers were on their way back from Nevada and the lot was devoid of the activity common on a typical Friday afternoon. In the Clubhouse, there were only a couple of hang-arounds playing pool while a handful of croweaters milled about the main room getting it ready for the after-Church party later tonight and an unfamiliar face sitting at the bar.

_She's not exactly unfamiliar_, thought Jax wryly.

He had actually seen her ride onto the lot on the back of Happy's bike about a week ago. While the former Tacoma Killer had cleared it with him about letting her stay at the Clubhouse for a while, Jax had still not been formally introduced. Apparently, it hadn't been a lack of etiquette on Happy's part either. Jax had heard through the grapevine—and they didn't call Juice the Intelligence Officer for nothing—that the girl was a bit of a loner and not inclined to bend to anyone's will easily. Not even Happy's.

A stubborn, pig-headed woman wasn't exactly something new to Jax, but his old lady Tara and even his mother Gemma understood that, at least in the Clubhouse, the patches were in charge. It was rude, especially for a SAMCRO woman—old lady or croweater—to refuse an introduction, especially when as President he had okay'd having an outsider crash at the Clubhouse as a favor to Happy. But according to Juice, Marla, Margo, or whatever-the-fuck-her-name wasn't Happy's old lady, which Jax could have guessed all on his own. Happy, along with Kozik, had prospected with the mother charter, patching in before both had made the jump to Tacoma. Jax had known Happy for many years and in all that time, Happy had never once had an old lady. Never saw the point, he had explained once, as any SOA Clubhouse from Charming to Tucson to Vancouver and beyond was a veritable pussy buffet. Why settle for one main course when you could have multiple, even at the same time?

Now that he and Tara had hit a rough patch in their relationship once again, Jax was starting to see the wisdom in Killah's way of thinking. That was the main reason why the long-limbed beauty with the caramel-colored hair and blonde highlights sitting at the bar baffled him. As far as he knew, which admittedly wasn't much, Happy wasn't even hitting that shit. The young woman, with silver rings on her fingers and a thing for desert camouflage cargo pants that slung low on her slim hips and combat boots, had been offered Happy's dorm room by Happy himself. She, however, didn't take kindly that Happy was part of the deal and had opted to sleep on one of the couches instead, only retreating to the dorm when Happy was working in the garage or on the road.

Instead of heading to his own dorm like he had planned, his now home-away-from-home again, Jax swaggered over behind the bar and grabbed himself an ice cold beer from the icebox. The young woman was leaning against the bar with her arms crossed in front of her as she held a paperback book in one hand. Jax knew the exact moment she put the book down as he could practically feel her eyes studying him as he popped open the bottle. Trying to catch her off guard, Jax suddenly looked up, his crystal blue eyes clashing with her heather gray ones. Totally unfazed, she met his gaze directly.

With a slight smirk and a raised blond eyebrow, Jax offered her the beer. Lazily raising one of her multi-ringed hands, she waved him off, the expression on her face unchanged.

Bringing the beer up to his lips, Jax took a healthy swig, his eyes never leaving hers. "Jax Teller," he said simply by way of introduction. If no one was so inclined to do the honors, he'd do it himself.

_Never had a problem approaching a pretty woman before Tara. Why the fuck start now_?

Instead of reciprocating with a name, the young woman replied without irony, "I know who you are."

Taken just a smidge by surprise, Jax quickly recovered and chuckled before taking another gulp of beer. "That's funny cuz I have no clue who you are and this being my Clubhouse and all, I—"

"Marlowe," she replied before Jax could finish.

Noticing the colorful and intricate portrait of 1950's pin-up Bettie Page decorating her left arm for the first time, Jax smiled. With his eyes suddenly drawn to the full bottom lip she was gently gnawing between her teeth, Jax couldn't help but wonder what other tattoos she was sporting and where.

"Marlowe your stage name?" Jax knew he was being an asshole, but he was looking to unnerve her a little bit, get her to drop the Ice Queen routine.

Unperturbed, Marlowe ran the tip of her little pink tongue over the lip she had been biting. "I'm not a stripper."

Jax gave her a sexy, lazy smile, his eyes still focused on her pouty mouth. "I didn't say you were, darlin'," he lied with a straight face because that was exactly what he had been insinuating. Although Hap had filled him in on her status as his mother's caregiver, for some reason, Jax wanted to jerk her chain a little. "Just wondering if you have a last name or if you just go by Marlowe, like Madonna or Cher."

Finishing off his beer, Jax smiled broadly as he saw her soften a bit as she tried to keep one corner of her mouth from curling into a half-smile. "Just Marlowe will do, but if you must know, my government name is Guthrie," she replied cheekily.

Jax laughed good-naturedly. "Your government name, huh? Well, then, we'll go with _just_ Marlowe." Jax pulled a bottle of Jack from one of the shelves lining the wall behind the bar. "What are you drinkin', Marlowe?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I was just sitting here, minding my business. If that bothers you, I can take a hike." Marlowe made to get off the stool, but Jax grabbed her arm with the Bettie Page tattoo.

"Whoa," Jax said, his brow knitted in confusion. Usually, he never got turned down when offering a woman a drink. Shit, Jax Teller never got turned down for _anything_, especially not by a woman. Without moving her head, Marlowe looked down at the large, slightly calloused hand gripping her wrist with the leather strap bracelet. "I said no such thing, darlin'. I just don't like drinking by myself." Finally letting go of her, Jax dropped two whiskey glasses on the bar and filled each with three fingers of Jack.

Placing a glass in front of her, Jax watched as she gently nudged the drink away, as if instead of Jack Daniels neat, he was offering her a glass of corruption. "Thanks, but I'm not much of a drinker," Marlowe lied.

With a raised eyebrow, Jax picked up his glass and drained it before filling it up again. "I wasn't getting the fruity-girly drink vibe from you, darlin'. I just thought you looked like you could use a drink."

_You have no idea, handsome, but Prozac and whiskey don't really mix well_.

"It's just a little early for me, that's all," Marlowe replied, her voice soft. "You can try me again later," she offered, her eyes sparkling and a ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

_Holy shit! Where in the hell did that just come from? Suddenly I'm flirting like a fuckin' seaman on shore leave!_ Marlowe chastised herself. Jax suddenly flashed her his patented panty-dropping smile and her insides clenched deliciously, her womanly core springing to life. _Oh yeah, horny sailor asking for permission to go ashore, sir!_

"Oh, I will, darlin'," Jax drawled as he took the glass he had set before her back. Throwing her whiskey down his throat, Jax leaned towards her on the bar. "I love a woman with self-control, but I must say, hanging around a Clubhouse full of dirty, hard-partying bikers must be doing a number on your will power."

He was mere inches from her face and Marlowe had to fight the urge to close her eyes as she inhaled the intoxicating aroma of the whiskey on his breath. "Let's just say I'm not exactly well-known for my self-control, _darlin'_," she replied saucily. Now it was her turn to leisurely savor his mouth with her eyes, which did not go unnoticed by Jax.

Jax licked his lips and ran a hand over the hair on his chin. She may have turned down his offer of a drink, but he was starting to get the feeling that maybe a drink wasn't what she was thirsty for. If he kicked the charm into full throttle, another twenty minutes of flirty banter and just maybe he wouldn't have to take that shower all by himself. Before he could find out, however, the Clubhouse door flew open with the aforementioned dirty, hard-partying bikers spilling into the main room. Suddenly, the room was filled with a flurry of activity as one of the croweaters threw on some music as a couple of others headed to the bar and started passing out beers to the road weary crew newly-arrived from Reno.

Catching a glimpse of Happy's bald head, Marlowe decided to beat a hasty retreat, grabbed her book and headed back towards the dorms before the alarmingly sexy and flirtatious SAMCRO President could stop her again. With one eye trained on Marlowe's small, but bubble round ass in her snug cargo pants, Jax was pulled into a conversation with Opie and Tig, and with the other watched as Happy waved off one of his usual croweaters who had approached him with a shot glass and a beer chaser. Without saying a word to anyone, he followed Marlowe to what Jax was sure was Happy's dorm.

* * *

Marlowe didn't even bother closing the door behind her, much less locking it. After all, it wasn't her room and Happy would just end up banging on it until she relented and opened the door anyway. Sitting on the edge of the military-style made bed, Marlowe waited for Happy to come barreling in.

He didn't disappoint.

Happy stopped just short of entering the room, his tall, lithe yet muscular frame filling the open doorway. "Honey, I'm home," he announced, which in his gravelly growl sounded just this side of ridiculous.

Marlowe crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him with what could only be described as disdain.

"You're pissed," Happy surmised when that withering look was her only response to his arrival.

"What gave you that idea?" Marlowe crossed one of her long legs over the other and bounced her foot energetically as she drummed her fingers on her arms.

Looking around his dorm and stepping inside to get a closer look at the now-sparkling bathroom, Happy turned to stand in front of Marlowe, her head level with his hips. "The fact that you cleaned my room when I asked you not to is a major clue that you're pissed and looking for a way to piss me off too."

Now she was looking at him like instead of a Harley he should be riding a short bus. "You are the only man I know that would take coming home to a clean living space as an act of aggression," Marlowe said evenly.

"I asked you not to," Happy growled.

"No, you TOLD me not to," Marlowe corrected. "But if you were gonna abandon me in Biker Town for the last three days, I'm sure you didn't expect me to hole up in a pig sty."

"I didn't _abandon_ you, Marlowe. There are always plenty of patches and old ladies hanging around that you could have taken a minute to get to know."

"That's funny, considering everyone around here goes out of their way to stay out of mine," Marlowe replied.

"That's not true," Happy said unconvincingly as he waved her away.

"Bullshit! And don't even try to convince me that you had nothing to do with that," she argued. "Besides, I'm not here to make nice, Hap. I wouldn't be here at all if you were a man of your word," she accused and instantly knew she had said the wrong thing if the look on his face was anything to go by.

Taking a step back, Happy used his booted foot to kick the door closed. Quickly jumping to her feet, Marlowe instantly took a defensive stance. There was no way in hell she could outfight a man built like Happy, but she'd be damned if he thought he could slap her around like one of his biker groupies without her fighting back.

"So which is it, Marley? Are you being a fuckin' bitch about having to stay at the Clubhouse or is this about me not fixing your piece of shit car yet?" Happy spit out. "Either way, I told you I was gonna help you out and that's what I'm trying to do, so stop being such a cunt about it."

She was back to flashing him with a withering look as she cocked a hip, her hands resting on the exposed flesh between the waist of her cargo pants and the white wife-beater she was wearing. "You kiss Amelia with that mouth?"

Happy pointed an index finger at her. "Don't go there, Marlowe," he growled.

"Seriously, Hap, what would your mother say if she heard you talking to me like that?"

Happy shook his shaved head. "She'd prolly twist my ear off, but she has no clue what a pain in the ass you are."

"Ha!" Marlowe laughed sarcastically. "That's funny that you can say that with a straight face. Trust me, Amelia knows. I wouldn't know that you get your temper from her if I _wasn't_ such a pain in the ass."

In spite of himself, Happy laughed gruffly.

"Seriously, Happy, the last three days would not have sucked balls if my car had been running," Marlowe said. "I want my car."

"Tough shit! Your piece of shit cage is not a priority right now!" Happy nearly bellowed.

"Silly me," Marlowe started condescendingly. "I thought that when you offered to have it towed here, an actual garage, that it would get fixed because, you know, that's what usually happens in a garage." Happy squeezed his eyes shut and hit himself repeatedly on the side of the head with a clenched fist. Marlowe crossed her arms and watched him abuse himself with a bored expression on her face before finally stepping forward and grabbing his arm. "Stop that, you moron!"

"Trust me, bitch, it hurts a lot less than having this conversation with you again."

Fighting the urge to punch him in the face with his own fist, Marlowe laughed in spite of herself. "Okay, so give it to me straight, Hap, no bullshit. How much longer is it gonna take to fix my car?"

"You mean considering that the money for parts is coming outta my pocket and since you can't pay for the labor either, I have to find the time to work on it myself?" Happy groused.

"Yeah, considering all that, asshole, how long?" she asked again.

"I don't fuckin' know, Marlowe. In case you haven't noticed, I just dragged my ass in here from a three-day run. I have to be at the table in a few hours for Church and right now all I want is a shower, some food, and pussy. Unless you plan on helping me with any of the above, I suggest you chill out until I can check to see if the parts came in or not." Wasting no time, Happy started stripping, beginning with his kutte, followed by his t-shirt. Marlowe rolled her eyes and started going around him towards the door, but stopped. Happy gave her an evil grin. "Change your mind?"

"Uh, not a chance, Killah," Marlowe replied, using the Club's nickname for Amelia Lowman's pride and joy. "I have a question."

Happy ran a hand roughly over his face. "Enough with the fuckin' questions!"

"What's the deal with the Club Pres?"

Happy dropped his hand and gave Marlowe a quizzical look as she just confirmed that he hadn't been seeing things. Jax _had_ been cozying up to Marlowe at the bar.

* * *

_**Saturday, May 8, 2010**_

_Stay away from him, Marlowe_.

He had meant it as a command, but to Marlowe it had sounded like a warning. She had tried to press Happy to elaborate on his statement, but he ignored her as he proceeded to unbutton his jeans. Fearing that he was about to confirm her suspicion that he normally went commando after not finding a single pair of drawers—clean or otherwise—during her cleaning frenzy, Marlowe did an about-face and exited the room.

The after-Church party had finally died down about an hour ago. Even though Marlowe had lost all hope of ever sleeping normally again a long time ago, she was a creature of habit. Since staying at the Clubhouse, she had taken to claiming the couch shoved into a corner as her own at night, once most members and hang-arounds had called it a night and headed home. There, she would curl up in her PT sweats and t-shirt with her journal-slash-sketchbook for hours. Although sleep almost never came, a catnap being as far as it went nowadays, that couch was her little piece of this strange world Happy had thrust her into practically against her will. Aside from Happy's dorm, when he wasn't there of course, the grubby, tattered couch was where she felt safest at night.

With the after-Church party raging for hours, Marlowe had wandered aimlessly around the lot. Every so often she would duck her head into the Clubhouse to see if her spot was vacant, but there was always a crowd on or around _her_ couch. Once she had even seen Happy being dry humped by a scantily-clad croweater as he was engrossed in deep conversation with the biker with the scars on his face and a thick accent.

_Chibs_, Marlowe recalled was his name.

Aside from Kozik and Tig—and let's not forget Chatty Cathy Jax Teller earlier in the day—Chibs had been the only one that had even bothered to introduce himself during the Friday night bacchanalia in the Clubhouse. Not that she had been as talkative with him like she had been with Jax, but at least Chibs had tried. Otherwise, Marlowe got the feeling that she was being purposefully ignored by Happy's brothers. Knowing Hap, he had probably threatened doing bodily harm to anyone he caught talking to her, which didn't make any sense since he was always harping on her to get to know everyone.

_Mingle_, Happy had said when she first arrived at the Clubhouse. That was precious coming from the most anti-social misanthrope Marlowe had ever known in her life. Happy Lowman wasn't exactly what she would characterize as a people person.

The last time she had checked on her corner of the SAMCRO Clubhouse, the couch had been occupied by a skanky-looking redhead with a burly, hairy biker face planting in her crotch. If sleep never eluded her before, it would most definitely stay away now. Realizing that it was almost dawn anyway, Marlowe sat on the picnic table outside with her hard-backed journal opened across her lap and extracted one of her favorite sketch pencils from a small brown leather case.

Rolling it between her fingers, Marlowe's eyes formed into narrow slits as she allowed her hand to sweep across the blank page. As was usually the case, she had no idea what she wanted to draw and simply let her unconscious mind take her hands on a journey until the picture finally revealed itself. The dwindling light from the fires in the large oil drums scattered around the lot cast long eerie shadows, but with the morning sun starting to creep overhead, Marlowe became suddenly engrossed in her work as its shape started to emerge.

Lost in the drawing, it was only the soft snap of a Zippo lighter opening and the aroma of a freshly lit cigarette that alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone.

"That's pretty damn good," Jax Teller said quietly as Marlowe felt goose bumps break out over her bare arms. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she looked to see the SAMCRO President perched quietly next to her on the corner of the picnic table.

_Damn, either he's one stealthy bastard or I'm getting soft due to inactivity_, she thought slightly irritated. Although sketching had been a hobby she had picked up as a child, recently it had become more therapeutic in nature. It was also very personal and private and she couldn't help but feel a little miffed at the intrusion.

Soon after Happy had brought her into the Lowman home and dumped the young child on his poor, unsuspecting mother, Marlowe had picked up drawing as a way to bond with the gruff, hardcore biker. Or at least, she had hoped it would be a bonding experience for them. Stumbling over Happy one morning as he worked out an idea for an original tattoo one of his brothers had requested, Marlowe had become obsessed with the idea of learning how to draw as good as her surrogate brother. Succumbing to her pestering if only to shut her ass up, Happy had returned from one of his road trips with a small brown leather zippered case containing a set of professional quality pencils and a blank pad for her.

"That oughta keep you out my ass," he had said grumpily, dropping his gift onto her bed before stomping out of her room. Thusly, Marlowe's nearly-lifelong love of drawing was born.

Having spent already a significant amount of time as a loner, Marlowe had no interest in playing outside with the neighborhood kids. Instead, the young girl would spend much of her time scribbling and trying to emulate what she had seen Happy do. One spring day, lost in her own world as she sketched while stretched out on the lawn in the backyard, Happy had appeared seemingly out of thin air. Suddenly reaching down, he grabbed the pad from her. Taking a good, long look at what she had been working on, Happy started flipping through the pages, examining each one without comment.

Sitting down beside her, he said, "Let me show you some tricks." He then proceeded to give her pointers that would improve her already impressive skill. From that day forward, drawing became an addiction she had to indulge in on a daily basis, especially during her time as a Hospital Corpsman. Incorporating sketches with written entries in her journals, Marlowe captured the good, the bad and the downright ugly of her time in the service of her country.

After being denied access to the proper art supplies for some time, Marlowe had found it difficult to take up the hobby once again upon her return to Bakersfield. There were just some things that the former Corpsman no longer wanted to see or remember, much less draw with her own hands. Sensing that something was off with her niece, Ceci remembered seeing first hand how beneficial art therapy had been for some emotionally-challenged students in her school. Knowing how talented Marlowe had once been, Ceci had taken it upon herself to stick her big nose where Marlowe would argue it didn't belong.

One day, several months before Happy's release from Stockton, Ceci had shown up unannounced at Amelia's and dropped a couple of sketch pads and a pack of already sharpened pencils on the couch next to Marlowe. "Whatever's haunting you, Marley, put it on paper and burn it later if you have to. But just get it out, sweetheart," she had advised quietly, before going in search of her sister to start an argument over _nothing_, leaving behind a stunned Marlowe.

As the two women brought their argument out of the kitchen and into the living room, Marlowe's fingers started itching and soon she was effortlessly sketching the two women as they snarked back and forth, snickering to herself as she titled the completed sketch "Old School Cholas", marking her bittersweet re-acquaintance with an old love.

Right now, however, Marlowe wanted to curse her well-meaning Aunt Ceci to perdition as she finally raised her eyes to meet Jax Teller's. For some reason thinking she would be confronted with a mocking look in his eyes, she was surprised to see something hovering near admiration. Literally stumped for a moment as to how to respond, her tongue darted out to lick her dry lips.

"Uh, thanks," she proffered.

"May I?" He held out his hand, and with trepidation she offered him the sketchbook.

Tilting it closer to the light of one of the still-burning oil drums, Jax allowed his eyes to wander over the drawing. It was drawn in rough detail. The curves of the wheels and the chrome of the bike almost glinting despite the fact that it was done in graphite pencil. The tilt of the bike, angled almost as if it were taking a curve on a road, Jax could almost believe that it was moving across the page. The only thing missing was the distinct teal color of the panhead's gas tank for there was no doubt in Jax's mind that this was a rendering of his father's bike, currently on display in the Clubhouse alcove.

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, Jax let out a long plume of blue smoke. "You've been drawing a long time, huh?"

"Since I was a kid."

Jax offered a grin. "You and Hap related 'cause this shit is totally his thing?"

"No, we're not. I may not know who my daddy is, but I do know it's not Hap. Hard to tell because most of the time the asshole sure does like acting like he is," she replied offhandedly and winced a little. Running her hand through her hair, Marlowe looked at Jax with puppy dog eyes. "Shit, I'm sure I just violated some MC protocol by badmouthing the asshole. Promise you won't rat me out to Hap."

She was so earnest that Jax couldn't help but laugh out loud. S_he's either extremely brave or somewhat touched in the head not showing the proper amount of fear when it comes to the Tacoma Killer_.

"Rat ain't a word in my vocabulary, darlin'," he smiled broadly. "Your insolence is safe with me."

_Damn, he has a fuckin' gorgeous smile,_ Marlowe thought as she noted the sparkle in his blue eyes. Sobering up, his eyes roamed over her face and landed on her mouth and Marlowe realized just how close she was to having way too intimate a moment with the Club President.

"Can I offer you that drink now?" he said, his voice a husky whisper as he leaned towards her.

Marlowe felt the corners of her mouth lift involuntarily. "Mr. President, I get the feeling you're not really offering me a drink, are you?"

Jax's eyes darkened to the color of denim and locked with Marlowe's stormy gray ones. "No, I'm not."

_Stay away from him, Marlowe_, Happy's words came unbidden into her mind, forcing Marlowe to pull out of Jax's orbit.

As unwelcomed as those words were at this precise moment, Marlowe figured that Happy probably had his reasons for warning her away from Jax Teller. Until she was sure those reasons amounted to nothing more than just Happy being a pain in her ass, she would have to pass on what she was sure would be one hell of a ride.

"How about a rain check?" Marlowe asked before she could stop herself as Jax's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

Taking another deep drag of his cigarette, Jax smirked as he flicked the butt into the parking lot. _Shit! First my old lady pushes me away and now I'm striking out in my own Clubhouse_.

"I have to be at the hospital in a couple of hours," Marlowe felt compelled to explain. "Don't wanna have to rush that _drink_, right?" she added knowingly.

_God, I'm such a slut for blond bad boys!_

Jax chuckled. "Well, since you put it that way, darlin', a rain check it is then."

Jumping off the picnic table, Marlowe stretched an arm behind her back to get the kinks out before casting her eyes up to the sky. The sun was nearly up and if she changed into some PT gear, she could hit the streets for her five-mile run before making her way to visit Amelia. God knew that after this latest session of verbal seduction she could use the release.

"Thanks," she said with a pretty smile as she held out her hand. Jax raised a quizzical eyebrow. "My journal, please."

"Oh shit, right," he said, quickly handing it over. "You know, I really do like that sketch."

Hesitating for a moment, Marlowe took the pencil from behind her ear and, opening the book, made a quick notation at the bottom of the page. Carefully ripping out the sketch, she handed it over to a startled Jax with a flourish.

"From me to you. Enjoy," Marlowe said simply as she turned and made her way into the Clubhouse, her ass swaying gently in the early morning light.

Tearing his eyes away from her backside, Jax looked down at the sketch, a wry half-grin spreading across his face as he took in the signature.

_Just Marlowe._

* * *

**Glossary**

**Chola**: a female gangster or bad ass.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, people. I'm finally getting to the good stuff, but I really need your feedback on Jaxlowe so far. Your reviews are always very much appreciated! **

**For those of you watching, enjoy tonight's TWO-HOUR Season 6 Finale! Depending on how it all goes down, I may need a hug or two in the morning.**

**Hugs, Harlee!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

**A/N: I am over the moon with all the great reviews for the last chapter and all the Jaxlowe love I'm getting. As a very sincere thanks, I've decided to post this chapter a day early, so please keep the love coming my way. Hope you guys have recovered from Tuesday's season finale. Mum's the word in your reviews about it though, as some of readers are a season behind. As always, much love, Harlee.**

* * *

_**Wednesday, May 12, 2010**_

In spite of feeling like a fish out of water for almost two weeks, Marlowe was starting to feel like something good was finally coming her way. Feeling awkward and out of place was nothing new for her. The only place she had ever really fit in had been the military, but whatever sacrifices she had been forced to endure while in Charming—like sharing a room with Hap and going without her own mode of transportation—had all been made worthwhile after meeting with Dr. Baines.

Marlowe had spent the morning with Amelia and Happy in consultation with her surrogate mother's orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Baines was quite pleased with Amelia's progress and predicted that if she continued to recoup at the speed she had thus far, Amelia was on schedule to be discharged from St. Thomas by the end of the week. The Modesto Wellness Facility had been alerted of her anticipated release date and once transferred, Amelia would spend another week recovering before starting intensive rehabilitative physical therapy for the next twelve weeks as she learned to use her new knee and how to walk again.

Although throughout the meeting Happy had maintained the normal stoic disposition he reserved for outsiders—a mix of cold aloofness and terrifying menace—Marlowe took the sudden yet slight sag in his shoulders as a sign that he was relieved by the outcome. Flashing her with a smile disguised as a grimace and a barely perceptible wink, Marlowe knew that was her big brother's way of thanking her for the part she had played in helping get Amelia to this point.

Unfortunately, the good mood the better-than-expected news had inspired had been quickly foreshadowed in Marlowe's mind by the fact that she was still without a car. With Modesto being about thirty minutes from Charming, there was no way she would be able to see Amelia on a daily basis without wheels, which was why she now found herself sitting on a stool in one of the garage bays while Happy tinkered with her piece of shit car. Leaving the hospital earlier, Marlowe had barely waited until they were out of earshot of Amelia's room before blistering Happy's ass by revisiting the sore subject.

"So what's the deal, Hap? Any chance my car will be fixed by Friday?" she had started with a slight tinge of hope in her voice.

"We'll see," came Happy's irritated response as they strode down the hospital corridor and into an elevator already occupied by an elderly woman.

"No, we won't see," Marlowe responded indignantly. "It's been almost two weeks and my car is still sitting in the same spot on the lot untouched. You can't expect me to go to Modesto every day without a damn car."

"No, but I do expect you to stop bitching at me and get off my fuckin' ass," Happy growled. "I _said_ I was gonna fix shit."

Out of the corner of her eye, Marlowe saw the old woman nervously shift herself into the opposite corner of the elevator. Feeling bad for the frail senior, Marlowe tried to temper her tone. "When? I need a date—and, for your sake, hopefully _before_ Friday, or you're gonna have to cough up money to rent me a car."

Happy turned his head and looked at Marlowe like she had just tried to kick him in the balls. "I SAID I'll handle shit, a'ight?"

"And I SAID I need a date," Marlowe replied. Exiting the elevator behind her brother on the main floor, she heard the woman give a quiet sigh of relief as the doors were about to close, but she was too busy haranguing Happy to offer an apology. Instead, she amped up her level of abuse and insults, nipping at his heels like an angry Rottweiler ready to take a chunk out of his ass.

By the time they reached the parking lot, Happy had finally had enough. "I SAID A'IGHT ALREADY! I'LL TAKE CARE OF IT TODAY, DAMN IT!"

Happy fought the urge to throttle her as Marlowe suddenly transformed into a docile little bitch right before his eyes, as if fuckin' butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"That's all I wanted to know," Marlowe replied airily as she took his helmet off the handlebars and put it on. "Absolutely no need to lose your shit," she continued as she straddled his bike, expectantly staring up at Happy as he stared back with a measure of disbelief. "Uh, are we going or what?" she asked, the corner of her mouth turning up ever so slightly into a barely concealed smirk.

Tossing his leg over the seat, Happy muttered under his breath, "I swear, if I didn't need your help with Ma, I'd run you over with my ride." He then proceeded to haul ass out of the parking lot and down the street.

Now as she kept him company while he worked on her car, Marlowe tapped her foot impatiently as the first hour of repairs passed and headed into the second.

"So, how's it coming?" Marlowe asked for the fifth time in the last half hour. Holding her breath, she hoped that maybe this time she would get a different response.

No such luck.

Happy merely grunted—_again_—and Marlowe was starting to take this as a sign that things weren't looking so good. Pulling himself out from under the hood of the Ford Escort, Happy reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a bandana. He wiped the sweat that was running down the back of his neck before stripping out of his T-M work shirt to reveal the white wife-beater underneath. The garage was buzzing with activity as the garage crew went about their work, and the noise level was near deafening. Marlowe winced as she heard the high-powered whine of what had to be a power saw being used in the next bay. Turning her head around, she watched as an oversized mechanic with his ginger-colored hair tied into a short stubby ponytail operated a metal cutting saw at one of the work benches.

"Damn, all this noise is giving me a fuckin' headache," she complained as she rubbed her temples.

"Yeah," Happy said irritably as he gave her the eye. "I know just how you feel."

Marlowe paused as she gathered her hair into a low knot at the nape of her neck. "Was that a dig?" she inquired with a fake ass smile on her face. "That wasn't a dig, was it?" she goaded.

"Yeah, it was," was his short reply.

"Asshole," she muttered, standing up. "I'm gonna take a piss."

"Good. Maybe you'll get lost on the way," Happy said as he tossed down his wrench and grinned cheekily. "Now that _my_ headache is leaving, I can take a break." Marlowe gave him a dirty look before stomping off over to the Clubhouse, her ass twitching with every step.

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his work shirt lying on a bench, Happy heaved a sigh of relief and headed outside for a smoke.

* * *

Jax had tried.

But if the SAMCRO Pres thought that doing some honest-to-God hard physical labor would get his mind off of his troubles, he had been sorely mistaken. _Sorely_ being the operative word because, in spite of the fact that exercising his demons in the garage had worked in the past, today his exertions had done little by way of relieving the throbbing ache between his legs.

_Even with a raging case of blue balls, I'm not sure __any__ woman on this lot is safe around me right now_, Jax thought grimly as he put down his wrench on one of the worktables in the noisy bay. If any of the croweaters knew in just how desperate a state he was in, there was no chance he'd make it off the lot alive.

And for a brief moment, Jax was tempted to put the fact that he was open to considering propositions out there.

Generally speaking, Jackson Teller—a well-known hot head with a hair trigger temper—knew that he had a handle on his shit. When it came to SAMCRO, he had learned over the years how to react with his head and not his emotions and that kind of discipline wasn't always easy to achieve in this Life. Living the outlaw life came with many risks, but it also came with many advantages. Always a lover of the ladies, one of his favorite fringe benefits had always been the abundance of available pussy at the Clubhouse.

Like his brothers—and before Tara had returned to Charming—Jax believed that variety was the spice of life and had thoroughly enjoyed a safe, yet active sex life with many of the Club women. Jax had matured enough over the years to realize that he had used the croweaters to fill the void left by Tara when she left him when they were both nineteen. But now that she was back and they were supposedly building a life together, that void had somehow snuck back in.

_Nearly three weeks out of prison and I can count the number of times my dick got wet with my old lady on one hand and still have fingers left over_, he thought with some bitterness, knowing that he had seen more action in Stockton, courtesy of his own fuckin' hand.

Jax knew that sex wasn't everything when it came to relationships, but he did know that the frequency or lack thereof was a clear indicator of just how healthy a relationship was. And right now, sexually speaking, his relationship with Tara was dying of starvation. Because he was always at the ready, willing and able, Jax knew that fact wasn't entirely his fault.

Leaving the Fat Boy he was working on for now, Jax strolled out of the bay and headed towards the picnic table. Sitting down, he stretched his long legs wrapped in black denim jeans that rode low on his hips as he dug his pack of smokes from his work shirt pocket and quickly lit up. After spending several sleepless nights at the Clubhouse, tossing and turning, Jax had come close to breaking Tara's one cardinal rule: having sex with another woman.

Croweater or not, Jax sleeping with anyone but her was Tara's line in the sand—a "deal breaker" she called it. He had already done it once before by taking Ima the Porn Star into his bed in a misguided and knuckleheaded effort to protect Tara. At the time, she had been so emotionally invested in "them" that Jax knew the only way he would succeed in pushing Tara away from the dangers he exposed her to was by breaking her heart.

She had left him ten years before without provocation or warning and when loving Tara Knowles had been Jax's entire world. Even though it had become blatantly clear—even before Abel was kidnapped—that Tara was not happy in Charming, apparently, this time around, she needed a reason to leave, a reason to once again devastate his whole life. Well, if an out had been what his old lady needed, he had given it to her by fucking Ima. She should have taken it, but didn't. If she had, maybe by now Tara would be living the safe and normal life she seemed to crave only when she was in Charming. _Only_ when she was with him.

_And she wouldn't have lost our baby_.

While in Stockton, Happy had cautioned him about keeping thoughts of his old lady and son in the rearview and after the attack, Jax had managed to do just that, keeping his mind focused and staying alive. Only at the end of each day, lying on his narrow bunk in the dark, did Jax allow his thoughts to linger on his family. There, in the relative safety of his cell and with Clay snoring softly from the top bunk, did Jax let himself wallow in the pain and guilt he felt as a result of the havoc his outlaw lifestyle had wreaked on his family. Because of the life he lived, he had denied Tara and himself the opportunity to have a beautiful child together. His guilt had nearly consumed him, yet that loss had also given him purpose and the desire to once and for all do something about the violent life he lived.

But things never really go the way you plan them, especially when your perspective changes once you're living life again on the outside. In Stockton, Jax had believed that he would be able to sacrifice his love for his Club to keep Tara happy. When confronted with the mess that his stepfather had created by brokering the deal with the Cartel, however, Jax knew he had no choice but to step up and do what he could to save his Club. He couldn't—wouldn't turn his back on the Club and let it die.

And that decision put him at odds with his old lady.

Jax couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment because, once again, Tara believed that she was the only one suffering in this nightmare. Although she had finally acquiesced to his demands, Tara had found the surefire passive-aggressive way of showing just how disappointed and angry she was with him by putting her pussy on lock down.

Stubbing out his cigarette which he had smoked nearly to the butt, Jax lit another in frustration, the sting of rejection still smarting.

* * *

_**Tuesday, May 11, 2010: The Night Before**_

_Deciding he had spent enough time away from his home and old lady, Jax had closed the garage early. Pulling into the driveway, he parked his bike behind Tara's new Nissan Rouge_ _and, as he hung his helmet from the handlebars, noticed that most of the house was dim and wondered if anyone was even home. Entering the house, Jax made his way down the dark hallway to Abel's room, where he stopped to tuck his son's blankets around him before dropping a light kiss on his cool forehead. Although it was barely 8:00, Abel was fast asleep and Jax figured that was a good thing because he wanted his old lady all to himself tonight._

_Removing his kutte as he continued down the hall, Jax entered the master bedroom and hung it neatly on the chair by the door, somewhat surprised to find the room empty. Although he could see that the light from the en suite bathroom was on even though the door was closed, it was eerily quiet._

_Tapping lightly on the door, more to announce his presence than requesting permission to enter, Jax opened the door, releasing the steamy air and revealing Tara standing in front of the foggy mirror. She was freshly showered and wrapped in a fluffy white robe, her long, dark hair wet._

"_Hey," Jax said as he entered the bathroom._

"_Hey," came Tara's response._

_Jax frowned as Tara didn't turn around to face him. Instead, she picked up a hand towel to wipe down the mirror in front of her. Approaching her, Jax gently placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her rigid back into his hard chest and kissed her on the neck right behind her ear. He instantly felt Tara tense underneath his touch._

_She let out what to Jax's ears sounded like a frustrated sigh._

"_It's been a long day, Jax," Tara said, shrugging her shoulders slightly in an effort to dislodge his hands that were steadily massaging her. Grabbing the wide-tooth comb from the vanity, she proceeded to untangle the knots in her hair. "And I'm getting ready for bed."_

"_I can see that, darlin'," Jax started, his voice low, sexy. "Let me take a quick shower and I'll join you." Meeting her gaze in the partially steamed mirror of the bathroom, Jax focused eyes that always seemed to darken deeply whenever he was aroused._

_Like now._

"_I'm tired, Jax," Tara whined, dropping the hand holding the comb to her side. "I was hoping to catch up on some sleep. I'm just so tired—"_

"_Yeah, Tara," Jax started irritably, his own hands falling away from her shoulders. "I think I heard you the first one hundred times you've used that excuse."_

_Tara's dark green eyes flashed angrily at him through the mirror. "It's not an excuse, Jax. I'm genuinely—"_

"_Yeah, yeah. Tired. I get it, a'ight?" Jax snapped. "You know, there used to be a time when neither of us was ever too tired for sex. I'm starting to develop a fuckin' complex here."_

_Jax watched as Tara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Still refusing to turn around to face him directly, she reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste sitting on the counter. "There also used to be a time when I wasn't exhausted 24/7. Maybe you've forgotten, but I've been doing a lot of shit for a long time now, Jax. Between raising Abel, minding the garage and my own work at the hospital, my schedule and my life have been pretty hectic for the last fourteen months," she said evenly. "And now with the Club back and this new fuckin' deal with a goddamn Mexican cartel, I'm sure I'll be adding patching up cuts and digging bullets out of asses to my to-do list again." Tara finally turned around. "So maybe you can find it within yourself to cut me some slack here because I happen to be a little tired and don't feel like playing your whore for half the night."_

_Before Jax could open his mouth and lose his shit, a wailing cry echoed down the hall. Using his own son against him as a distraction, Tara had walked out of their bedroom to see to Abel, leaving Jax in the same state she had grown accustomed to leaving him in._

_Aroused, confused, needy and resentful._

* * *

It had been bad fuckin' timing all around. In hindsight, Jax realized that he probably should have given Tara a head's up about coming home last night, even though the thought of doing so made him feel like he had done something wrong. And on some level, Jax felt like he had because he knew Tara was justified in feeling the way she did. On the other hand, deep down, he also knew that much of what she had said had been more along the lines of bullshit excuses in order to hide the fact that she was pissed at him for nixing her "Get out of Charming" plan.

After all, Gemma had been taken off of house arrest six months into Jax's prison sentence and had been back at the lot working with Chucky to run the garage. And while it was true that she had been doing a lot in the way of looking after Abel, with Elyda picking up the slack now that Gemma was back at T-M, the amount of time that Tara spent with his son was relegated to a few hours after work. However, her final excuse—her duties as on-call doctor for the Club—was another matter altogether.

He knew Tara had always resented how much SAMCRO relied on her skills. The first time had been when they needed help in patching up the Club's RIRA contact Cameron Hayes, who after a bar shoot out intended to kill Clay, was in danger of bleeding out thanks to a bullet in the ass. Soon, it quickly morphed into Tara being their go-to whenever his brothers needed medical care. Jax knew that 99.9% of the time, Tara only made herself available to help because of him. As much as he wished he could lighten her load in that respect, when it came to his Club's well-being, that was one duty he wasn't going to let Tara shirk.

_Especially since she's not even giving me head_.

Just then, Jax's attention was drawn across the lot to the attractive sight of a long-legged beauty making her way towards the Clubhouse.

Marlowe Guthrie had a long, loose stride that did nothing but showcase all her assets, of which there were many. Although she was more muscular than he was used to in a woman, there was nothing at all wrong with the package she presented. A casual beauty with seemingly no real fashion sense, as his mother would say, or any interest in slathering on pounds of make up like other women, she was comfortable and relaxed in her own skin and seemingly unaffected by the obvious effect she had on him.

_She's looking a little militant right now_, Jax thought, noting the irritation marring her pretty face and the angry twitch of her little apple butt as she strode into the Clubhouse, not even looking in his direction as she did so. Jax grinned to himself. _Shit! She could probably crack a walnut with that ass._

Jax stared long and hard at her retreating form. He was usually pretty good at guessing whether or not a woman was wearing underwear and was sure Marlowe was sporting a sexy thong. Finding himself practically panting like a dog in heat, Jax wondered if the temptation to push up on that was just a result of Tara's outright refusal to fuck him.

_Okay, now that's total bullshit_, Jax chastised himself.

Jax had to be honest with himself and admit that he probably wouldn't hesitate in tapping that ass if the opportunity ever presented itself, no matter what his situation with Tara. Whatever shit was going on between him and his old lady needed to come to a head and soon. The fact that he and Tara were seemingly on the outs only validated his current infatuation with Marlowe Guthrie. For the sake of their relationship, as well as his lonely dick, he needed Tara to get on board and take care of business as his old lady.

'_Cause if she won't, I'm sure I can convince Marlowe to._

* * *

Exiting the bathroom, Marlowe closed the door behind her and frowned as the familiar sounds of someone in distress amid a big commotion travelled its way down the hall towards the dorms.

_What the fuck?_ she thought, her feet already propelling her forward as her heart started racing in her chest. Somehow she knew exactly what she was hearing. Someone in the Clubhouse was screaming in agony. The sound of extreme pain combined with sheer terror was, unfortunately, all too familiar to her.

Rounding the corner, Marlowe stopped dead in her tracks at the insane amount of blood she was seeing.

The scene before her was one of mass confusion as a crowd continued to gather around the burly ginger-haired mechanic she had seen earlier. He was clutching a mass of torn flesh to his chest. She quickly realized it was his hand and it was flowing blood freely from where his thumb used to be.

"Holy fuck," she murmured. Feeling the bile from her stomach well up in her throat, Marlowe made a great effort to swallow back her nausea.

_Don't do this shit, _she ordered herself. _Not now, grunt! Not now!_

Suddenly, a sense of calm flooded her veins. For the first time in almost two years, Marlowe found herself striding forward with purpose and into the swirling mass of humanity crowding around the injured man.

"Wade, mon, ya need to calm da fuck down," Chibs said loudly as he tried to make himself heard over the mechanics wails. "Brutha!" he yelled at Juice who was frantically digging through the small black bag containing the Club's only first aid kit. "Get me something to stop dis shite and quick! I think he nicked an artery!"

Knowing what that meant—that in mere minutes, the mechanic was in danger of bleeding out—Marlowe shoved her way through the crowd of horrified spectators and found herself at the Intel Officer's side.

"Get out of the fuckin' way," she ordered brusquely, snatching the bag out of the hands of an astonished Juice.

"Hey, girlie! What da hell are ye doin'?" Chibs started, but was quickly interrupted by Kozik.

"Move aside, brother. Let Doc do her thing," he said quickly as Chibs eyes widened. "Do it! She can help, trust me."

Not waiting for Chibs to acknowledge Kozik's command, Marlowe stepped up to the mechanic. "Hey! Look at me. I said look at me," she said in a calm voice as she snapped her fingers in front of the man's wild brown eyes, getting him to focus on hers. "I need you to stay calm, all right? You listening to me?"

The man nodded his head shakily despite the pain as he made an attempt to swallow back the sobs burning the back of his throat as tears ran down his face.

"Okay. Let's move him. You two," she motioned to the two largest men in the room. "Get over here and move him into that chair. Now!" Marlowe ordered, motioning to one of the tables, and watched as the large patch called Opie and the other, a massive Prospect named Filthy Phil, sprang into action. Grabbing the man underneath his arms, they quickly propelled him over to a chair. Following behind them, Marlowe dropped the first-aid kit on the table in front of him. Pawing through it, she retrieved a pair of surgical gloves and a tourniquet. Turning she found the Scotsman at her back. "Chibs, right?"

"Yes, luvie."

"Okay, Chibs. I need you to grab his arm firmly and holding it steady, lift it above his heart while I apply the tourniquet," she explained calmly.

"You got it," he replied as he carefully forced the injured man to release his arm and did as Marlowe instructed.

Addressing the mechanic, she asked, "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Uh, uh, Wade," he stammered, sweat dripping down his pale countenance.

"Wade, I know I'm asking for a lot right now, but I need you to calm down, okay? The more agitated you get, the quicker your heart is gonna pump that blood out of your body. You get what I'm saying?" she asked and Wade nodded quickly. "Good, so close your eyes and take really deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth, okay? Focus on your breathing and not on the pain. It's gonna be okay," she assured him.

Quickly snapping on the gloves, Marlowe tied the tourniquet around the base of the hand, right above the torn flesh and immediately the blood gushing from the nicked artery started to slow down.

Chibs let out a huge sigh of relief. "Shite, it looks like it's working."

"It's doing exactly what it should be doing, handsome," Marlowe managed to grin wryly. "Now Wade, keep breathing evenly and hold your arm up high, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sweetie, now you know I'm too cute for you to call ma'am. It's either Marley or Marlowe," she smiled.

"Nah, Wade. Call her Doc," Tig said from behind her. She looked up to meet his eyes full of respect and nodded her appreciation.

"I guess that'll do, too," she said and turning her eyes to Tig's left, she met the gaze of a very stunned SAA.

* * *

Being that he wasn't much of a talker to begin with, saying that Happy Lowman had been struck speechless was a severe understatement. He had seen a lot of shit go down in his forty-plus years, but this shit right here had nearly knocked him on his ass and that was saying something.

Enjoying a leisurely smoke outside the bay he had been working in, Happy had been one of the first to respond to the mechanic's desperate wailing. The circular saw Wade had been using to cut a metal pipe had somehow slipped and severed his thumb and, Happy was sure, a small portion of his hand as well. Following Chibs' order to get him to the Clubhouse while he retrieved the first aid kit, Happy had half carried the man across the lot as evidenced by his blood-covered wife beater. He had been standing off to the side with a couple of brothers, making sure to stay out of the way unless he was needed, as Chibs tried in vain to calm down the injured man, only for Marlowe to walk into the room and take shit over.

Happy had been about to cut her off at the pass by telling her to go satisfy her morbid curiosity somewhere else when she beelined it right into the fray. Suddenly, Happy found his way blocked by Tig who had grabbed him by the arm. His brother getting grabby was one thing, but it was the words that next came out of his mouth that had stunned him even more.

"Bro, let Doc do her thing," Tig advised.

_Doc?! Her thing?! Just who the fuck is 'Doc' and what exactly is 'her thing'?!_ Happy had wanted to ask, but instead, stood silently among his brothers and watched as Marlowe first calmed Wade down and then worked with unbelievable speed to stop the bleeding. His brain was having trouble processing what his eyes were seeing even though, on the surface, it seemed simple enough as Marlowe ripped open several packages of sterile bandages and started to dress the wound. He managed to tune out conversations going on around him as he zeroed in to what she was saying as she started shouting orders and asking questions.

"What the fuck happened?"

"He was using the circular saw," Lowell started explaining, swallowing the lump in his throat. "The pipe slipped out of his grip and the next thing I knew he was screaming and his thumb was on the ground."

"Speaking of the missing digit, anyone have it?" Marlowe asked the room in general. Everyone suddenly fell silent, the only sound being Wade performing deep breathing exercises. Marlowe noted with half a smile that concentrating on his breathing must have taken his mind off the pain as he was no longer moaning in agony. "Okay, I guess that's a no," she drawled as she allowed her eyes to search the room. "You," she said as her heather grey eyes latched onto a body, her hands still working on bandaging the wound.

"Who? _Me_?" Ratboy nearly swallowed his tongue.

"Yeah, you. What's your name?"

"Uh, Ratboy," he supplied.

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. "I guess it's better than Cockroach, huh? Look, Ratboy, you afraid of a dead thumb?"

Ratboy swallowed hard enough for it to be audible. "Shit no," he blustered.

"Good. Slap on your listening ears 'cause I'm only saying this once. Get it wrong and I'll amputate _your_ thumb, got it?" her tone was brisk as she worked on her patient.

"Yes, ma—I mean, Doc."

"Take a pair of surgical gloves from that bag and some sterile pads," she started, nodding at the open kit on the table. "Go to the kitchen and get one of those glass jars sitting on the shelf above the counter. Rinse it out using hot water, but fill it up halfway with _cold_ water and add four ice cubes. Next, grab a Ziploc baggie from the drawer by the sink and haul ass to the garage. Put on the gloves and then use the sterile pad to carefully retrieve Wade's thumb. Place it in the baggie and zip it, sealing it tight, but make sure to leave a pocket of air inside. Following so far?"

Ratboy nodded.

"Then you're gonna put the baggie in the jar, but don't let the thumb come into direct contact with the ice and then haul ass back here. After that, your only job is to guard that jar with your life, you get me?" she ordered.

"I get you."

"Okay, so go," Marlowe commanded, shaking her head wryly as the Prospect stood rooted to the floor, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression on his face. "Like _now_ would be a really good time!" she barked with some exasperation as Ratboy finally took off. Happy watched as Marlowe used her forearm to wipe the sweat from her face before opening her mouth again. "Please tell me someone called for an ambulance."

"Yes, sir—ma'am! I mean Doc," Filthy Phil replied nonsensically. "I called about five minutes ago."

"What then? Did they get lost? How big is this fuckin' town anyways?" she muttered aloud only to hear the sound of a siren. "About damn time." Paying little attention to her blood spattered clothing, Marlowe crouched in front of the man. "How you hanging, Wade?"

"Barely, Doc. The breathing stopped working. I'm—I'm in a lot of pain."

"I'm sorry about that, but we're gonna get you fixed up in no time," she promised and stood up as two EMT workers rushed into the Clubhouse with a stretcher. "Just hang in there for me, alright?" She smiled as Wade gave her a slight nod.

The quick conversation between Marlowe and the EMTs as they worked on Wade was a blur of medical jargon to Happy and everyone else standing around the Main Room. As fixated as he was on Marlowe, he started sharply as a deep voice standing right next to him invaded his thoughts.

"Shit, bro, those are some mighty impressive skills your Ma's caregiver has there," Jax said quietly. "She medically trained?"

Happy shook his head, his eyes never leaving Marlowe. "I don't know, brother," he admitted as Opie, standing on the other side of Happy, frowned.

Watching silently as the EMTs moved Wade onto the stretcher, Jax approached the group, placing a hand on the mechanic's shoulder. "Don't worry about a thing, man. I'm sure St. Thomas will get you all patched up."

Wade nodded, but his eyes were filled with tears, pain and worry. "I don't know, Jax. What if they can't reattach my thumb? What am I gonna do? And my insurance ain't that great—"

"I said, don't worry about a thing, man," Jax said quietly. "T-M's got you covered." Standing between Wade on the stretcher and Jax, Marlowe turned her head towards the Club Pres, giving him a slight nod as a small smile formed on her lips. Jax returned the smile and gave her a wink for good measure.

_He may be a flirty motherfucker, but he's not too bad of a boss either._

"Okay," the EMT worker said briskly. "Let's get him loaded up."

"I'm coming with," Marlowe announced.

Jax eyed her skeptically. "You're going to the hospital with Wade?"

"Of course," Marlowe said calmly as she stripped off her bloody gloves and grabbing Juice's hand slapped them into his. "I'll stick with Wade until his girlfriend shows up. It'll also give me some time to spend with Happy's mom."

"Jax," Chibs interjected. "I'll go with the lass, too."

Grabbing her backpack and jacket that were lying on the couch, she eyed Happy. "I'll be late, but I can make my own way back." Without further comment, she and Chibs followed behind Wade and the EMTs, with Marlowe stopping only long enough to grab the jar from Ratboy.

With a crowd gathered in the parking lot, Wade was loaded into the ambulance, followed by Marlowe and one of the paramedics before the doors slammed. As Chibs on his ride and the ambulance peeled out of the lot, its siren wailing in the distance, Jax turned to face Happy.

"Bro, I think we need to talk," he said to his SAA before heading back inside.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Wednesday, May 12, 2010**_

Entering the Chapel last, Happy quickly noted that his "talk" with the President wouldn't be a private one as Jax wasn't alone at the table. Not only had Opie joined him inside, but so had Tig and Kozik. Closing the door behind the few hang-arounds still lingering in the Clubhouse, Happy took his seat next to Jax, who focused a pair of speculative eyes on his brother.

"Accidents happen all the time in the garage," Jax proffered as an opener, "but lucky for Wade there was someone on the lot today that knew what they were doing. Anything you want to share about your _friend_, Hap?"

"You mean aside from the fact that I'd like to wring her fuckin' neck right about now?" the SAA replied irritably, causing Jax to narrow his eyes in contemplation of Happy's current mood.

"Aw come on, Hap," Kozik interrupted. "You gotta admit, Doc did a great job, bro."

"No doubt," Opie interjected. "We're all just a little surprised and wondering how that shit came about," he continued as he eyed Happy. "Mind sharing?"

"Share what, brother?" Happy scoffed. "I don't know shit."

"I know you, Hap," Jax started. "There's no way you would bring an outsider into the Clubhouse without having some idea of who she is. You told me she's your mom's caregiver. I thought that meant cleaning bed pans and vomit duty, shit like that—"

"She knows a hell of a lot more shit than that," Tig interrupted, tapping his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray in front of him, knocking off ash and embers.

"Yeah, I got that, Tiggy," Jax retorted, his eyes still on Happy. "I'm sorry if I'm crossing the line here, brother, but with all this angst rolling off of you right now, I'm sensing that she might mean more to you than just the help," he continued cagily as a sudden and surprisingly unpleasant thought occurred to him. "You hitting that, bro?"

Happy's eyes widened to the size of cue balls. "FUCK NO!" he hollered before inhaling and exhaling hard to rein in his temper. "She's my little sister," he mumbled under his breath.

"What? I didn't catch that," Jax said perplexed.

"Marley is Hap's sister," Kozik reiterated and watched with interest as his President's eyes widened with speculation.

Cocking his head towards Kozik, Jax directed his question at his SAA. "Is he serious?"

Happy realized that in spite of being somewhat private when it came to his family, he was now going to have to come clean about Marlowe. It was becoming clear that if he had wanted to keep her connection to him off of everyone's radar, bringing her to Charming had been a bad way to do it. With her in town for only a few months while looking after his mother, he had hoped that her anti-social tendencies would prevent anyone from getting too close. It was obvious that he had woefully misjudged not only Marlowe but his brothers as well. She was no longer the gangly and moody Goth loner he remembered when she was a teenager. If he had only seen her through his brothers' eyes prior to bringing her to Charming, Happy would have known that there was a lot to attract their attention.

No longer gangly or awkward in her own skin, Marlowe was a confident young woman and a beauty, just like her mother had been. She was also a woman of substance, as she had seemingly proved this afternoon right before his own eyes. Seeing her jump into the fray to render first aid to an injured mechanic, and to see her do it with such calm and authority, had shocked Happy to his core—something that may not have happened had he taken the time to get reacquainted with his little sister once she had come back home. Now he was being made to feel like an ass in front of his Club by being called out on the carpet for hiding shit he had no clue about himself.

"Yeah, Koz is right, but she technically ain't my sister—that is, there's no blood connection," Happy explained. "She's just a kid from the neighborhood my Ma ended up raising to keep her out of trouble."

"She joined the Navy straight out of high school," Kozik interjected helpfully. "She got out just before you guys went into Stockton and stuck around to take care of Hap's mom while he was inside."

Happy shook his head at Kozik. "You're just all up in my shit, ain'tcha?" he growled.

"Hey, don't hate just cuz what happened today took ya by surprise," Kozik shot back. "You'd be surprised by what you'd know about your little sister if you hadn't stopped talking to her ten years ago."

"Wait a minute," Jax smirked. "You mean you haven't spoken to your kid sister in ten fuckin' years?"

"Marley's a bit of a pain in the ass. _Loves_ doing shit just to get under my skin. I told her joining up wasn't a good idea for her, but she didn't want to hear that shit, especially not coming from me," Happy replied in an argumentative tone.

"Looks like you made the wrong call, brother," Tig stated. "From what I saw out there, she handled her shit just fine. Any squid that can tough it out like a Marine is a big fuckin' deal in my book."

"Hell's yeah. Doc even served in me and Tig's old unit," Kozik said with some excitement. "Ain't that the shit?"

"That little girl is a tough motherfucker," Tig agreed. "The one-five has seen some heavy action in Afghanistan. You have to be tough as nails to survive that shit."

"How the fuck would you know?" Happy asked irritably.

"Hey, I'm educated," Tig said insisted. "I read _a__nd_ I watch Fox Evening News. I keep up with shit."

Jax decided to interrupt before the conversation totally veered off topic by Happy throwing a punch or two. "So she does first aid and shit?"

"It's way more than that, Jax," Kozik replied. "She's a Hospital Corpsman. The Marines don't have their own medic corps, so they rely on Corpsman from the Navy to take care of them medically, training them to watch their backs as well. A good Corpsman is like solid gold, man. Definitely worth their fuckin' weight."

"Corpsman ain't lightweights, but Doc was also part of the Fleet Marine Force," Tig interjected, but Jax shook his head as if to say he didn't know what that meant. "After basic and medical training, Doc went through boot camp again with the Corps where they make Corpsman earn the privilege of serving with the Marines. It's a big fuckin' deal for a squid to get an FMF rating and for a broad it's almost impossible," he explained.

"Yeah," Kozik agreed. "Doc's only the second female in the one-five's history to get it."

"No doubt she earned that shit with blood, sweat and tears. You can't hack it or you don't earn the battalion's trust, you might as well shoot yourself in the fuckin' head or they'll do it for you," Tig added.

"Hey, just like us," Opie inserted, inspiring a rumble of laughter around the table.

"She's the real thing, bro. Doc's proven herself and shit. Have you noticed the guns on that bitch?" Tig exclaimed. Taking in Happy's heated expression, the former SAA held up his hands in apology. "Sorry, Hap, just calling it like I sees it. Your little sis is fuckin' built."

"She needed those guns, lugging around as much as 70, even 100 pounds of medical equipment and weaponry on her back for days at a time. A Corpsman is trained in everything from basic healthcare to first aid, even surgery, including amputations. And she was trained to be able to do it all while under fire. That's why she was so calm and moved in so quickly to take care of Wade. She can probably do all that shit in her sleep," Kozik said as he knocked back the contents of his whiskey glass.

Jax looked at Kozik with a furrowed brow. "I think I'm with Hap on this. Just how the fuck _are_ you all up in his shit?"

Kozik shrugged his shoulders. "Happy tasked me to look out for her whenever he's out of town. Marley, Tig and me got to talking the other night and we swapped some crazy stories, man."

"Sure did," Tig agreed. "That broad has seen some serious action."

Happy just sat there, gritting his teeth, bitter about hearing all of this information about _his sister_ for the first time through third parties. He knew he had no one to blame but himself. It still didn't stop him, however, from irrationally wanting to punch holes in both Kozik and Tig for getting to bond with Marlowe in a way he never really could. In Happy's mind, even though Marlowe was in her late-20s, she was still the little girl he had reluctantly taken under his wing and promised to always protect.

Despite knowing that Marlowe would always end up doing exactly what Marlowe wanted to do anyway, Happy couldn't help but feel as if he had let that little girl down by _letting_ her join the Navy. He had spent the last ten years angry—pissed off, really—at that little girl for not letting him take care of her. Now, he was feeling somewhat humbled by the fact that she hadn't needed his protection. Realizing that the pain-in-the-ass little girl forever nipping at his heels had grown into some badass G.I. Jane that had thoroughly impressed his brethren, Happy had to admit to himself that he felt a tiny measure of pride in Marlowe's accomplishments.

One of Happy's brothers in particular found himself more enthralled with the young woman than any of the others. While the conversation continued to bounce around the room, Jax sat quietly contemplating his first and then subsequent talk with Marlowe while mulling over the information he had just been given. He should have recognized that haunted look in her beautiful gray eyes. After all, he had grown up in a Clubhouse full of war veterans and he had come to know that look well. He even remembered seeing it in his own father's eyes.

_I guess I was way the fuck off base hinting at her being a stripper_, he thought with some amusement.

Despite the "I really don't give a fuck" attitude that Marlowe seemed to wear like a fuckin' Badge of Honor, Jax couldn't help but be totally impressed by her. It was one thing to judge her by the packaging, which he liked very much. But considering what he had come to learn about her background, he was now more than a little intrigued by the strangely beautiful young woman.

All that aside, Jax always had a knack for looking at the bigger picture and for recognizing talent and skill. Quickly weighing the pros and cons of the matter and realizing that a woman used to the stress of being under fire while still handling her shit would be an asset to SAMCRO, Jax came to a rapid conclusion.

"Hap, I have a proposition for your little sister."

* * *

Walking onto the lot through the still-open gate, Marlowe sighed out of pure exhaustion as she made her way towards the Clubhouse, barely noticing the long line of Harleys parked outside. At the moment, she was experiencing tunnel vision. All she could see, all she wanted and probably all she had energy for was a long shower and some sleep.

_As tired as I am, I might actually get some tonight_.

Functioning on very little sleep to begin with, the sudden adrenaline rush she had experienced while helping Wade had left her drained both physically and mentally as soon as they had arrived at the hospital. Turning the jar holding the severed digit over to a surgical resident for examination, Marlowe had found herself pulled into a series of discussions with the emergency room staff as doctors examined Wade and nurses prepped him for surgery.

Wade's longtime girlfriend Nina had come rushing from her job in Lodi to be by her man's side and managed to see him briefly before he was wheeled into the operating room. Along with Chibs, Marlowe stayed in the waiting room to support a distraught Nina through Wade's surgery. To break up the monotony of sitting around waiting for word on the outcome, Marlowe had left Chibs behind with the girlfriend in order to spend some time with Amelia. Luckily, one of the nurses had offered her and Chibs scrub tops so that they could change out of their bloody clothing. As a result, other than a quirked eyebrow at the sight of her strange ensemble, Amelia made no comment and invited Marlowe to watch a Spanish novella playing on the flat screen in her room for a little while.

After the four-hour surgery was over, the doctor gave Nina the good news that they were able to reattach Wade's thumb. He was currently in post-op recovery where he would remain for a few hours before being moved to a room. By then it would be too late for Wade to receive any visitors, so after Nina was allowed a five-minute visit with him in the recovery room, Marlowe insisted that Chibs escort her home.

"Okay, luvie. It'll take about twenty minutes or so to see 'er home. Then I'll swing by and pick ya up," Chibs insisted, his Scottish accent rolling together in an almost unintelligible sort of music that she barely understood.

Shaking her head, Marlowe declined the offer. "Thank you, but I can use the walk back to clear my head." It had taken another five minutes before Marlowe was finally able to convince Chibs that she would be all right on her own.

"I don't doubt tha', sweetheart," the words rolled off his tongue. Walking away, the patch suddenly stopped and turned back. "Ya did a fine job today, lass, that ya did," Chibs said, patting her heartily on her shoulder before leaving with Nina.

Only when the pair had disappeared down the hall and around the corner did Marlowe finally allow herself to lean against the wall, letting herself slide down slowly until she was resting her ass on her haunches. Not the worse ordeal she had ever dealt with, but she was glad it was finally over just the same. She laid her head against the wall, closing her eyes. She must have drifted off because about twenty minutes later, her eyes opened with a start. Lifting herself upright, Marlowe had made her way to Amelia's room to say goodnight. Sneaking past the Nurses station, she poked her head inside and found her fast asleep, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Closing the door behind her, she slowly made her way downstairs and out of the hospital.

With no moon glowing in the clear sky, Marlowe only had random street lamps and the headlights of an occasional car passing her by to light her path. The long walk home in the dark put her in a reflective mood as she meandered her way through Charming. As tired as she was, Marlowe was in no rush to get back to T-M. After the show she had put on that afternoon in the Clubhouse, including bossing around several patches, she was sure some ass reaming or another was waiting for her return.

She had probably twisted some outlaw biker noses out of joint today. Marlowe had grown accustomed, however, to tweaking and maybe even bruising some macho egos during her time with the Marines, so she couldn't honestly say that she gave a shit one way or another. All she had done was what needed to get done and she would never apologize for helping out another fellow human being.

_Once a Corpsman, always a Corpsman_, Marlowe reasoned with herself.

Remembering the stunned look of disbelief on Happy's face, Marlowe winced to herself in the darkness. With her hands tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket, she slowed her long gait down to a crawl once she realized he was probably waiting for her. She loved her Tía like a mother, but the woman had the ability to make her grind her teeth in frustration with how right she _always_ was. In recent months, Marlowe had developed a newfound appreciation for Ceci, realizing her contradictory disposition with her sister probably stemmed from the fact that she too was tired of Amelia being right all the fuckin' time.

Months before his release from Stockton, Amelia had tried pushing Marlowe to visit Happy. They needed to heal the ten-year breach between them, she insisted and advised Marlowe to fill Happy in on _everything_ she had experienced since leaving Bakersfield for the Navy. The good, the bad, and the whole lotta ugly. Hindsight was indeed twenty-twenty, Marlowe realized only about six months too late and on her walk back from St. Thomas. Happy deserved to hear the truth face-to-face and straight from her. During his lock-up would have been the perfect time too, unless Hap had no problem adding to his sentence by strangling her right then and there in the Visitor's Room.

After Wade's accident and her response, she knew questions would arise between her and Hap. Telling him about her career as a Corpsman would be the easy part, the part she was most proud of. Everything else—from her PTSD to where she had ended up—would be much harder to share. She was already a disappointment in his eyes for joining up in the first place. The last thing she wanted to do was add more fuel to his fire.

Looking at her watch and noting the time—22:24—Marlowe realized that it was nowhere near what any self-respecting biker would call late. Her only hope was that, as usual, SAMCRO was too busy either getting drunk or laid or both to notice her return. Before entering the Clubhouse, she promised herself to seek Happy out first thing in the morning so they could sit down and talk like two adults.

Unfortunately, no good deed ever goes unpunished. And too bad for Marlowe, that was one lesson she had yet to learn.

* * *

Walking into the Clubhouse, Marlowe hadn't expected to find it as deserted as a ghost town. And she most definitely hadn't been expecting to find Happy sitting on _her _couch mean-mugging her the minute she came into view. That look, which she had seen many times before, was classic Happy Lowman. Meant to scare the living piss out of you, it was a clear indicator that shit was on and, if she had any sense, she would hightail it out of the building and go hide under a car. And if she were ten years old, that's exactly what she would have done.

_But I'm not ten_, Marlowe scolded herself._ What I am is tired and cranky and unwilling to put up with any bullshit right now._

Before she could open her mouth, Happy stood up abruptly. Pointing a finger at the closed Chapel doors, he barked, "You! Inside, now!"

Marlowe was unmoved and stood her ground, her face a mask of sheer boredom. "I'm not going any—"

In what seemed like three long strides, Happy was towering over her. "Finish that sentence and I'm dragging your ass in there," he threatened.

Glaring back at him, Marlowe was prepared to tell him to fuck off when she remembered the promise she had made to herself not sixty-seconds ago to sit down and talk with Hap like two adults. Realizing that Happy wasn't about to back off about wanting to discuss shit now, Marlowe rolled her eyes. Refusing to be intimidated, thus giving him control over the conversation, she straightened her back, allowing a mantle of confidence and authority to settle over her shoulders. Heading to the Chapel, Marlowe found it strange that he had "invited" her to invade the all-male sanctuary when they could have this conversation with just as much privacy in the dorm.

Entering the room for the first time since setting foot in Charming, her eyes widened slightly as they made contact with Jax Teller's. He was sitting at the head of the table with his VP, the bearded Redwood everyone called "Opie", on his left and Kozik and Tig in their respective seats. "Escorting" her into the room with a light shove, Happy closed the door behind them.

Jax was leaning back in his chair, his arm resting casually on the armrest as he smoked a cigarette. He didn't say a word. His eyes, however, spoke volumes to Marlowe as he let them roam over her, finally stopping their assessment as they made eye contact once again. Taking a drag from his smoke, Jax smirked to himself, noting that Marlowe seemed unaffected by his open appraisal of her. She was standing ramrod-straight, her combat-booted feet shoulder-width apart, and her hands clasped behind her back. She looked like a soldier at ease.

"I should have known after the first time we spoke that you were different," Jax said to Marlowe as if they were the only two people in the room.

"Yeah, you should have," Marlowe replied laconically. "After all, I do remember telling you that I wasn't a stripper."

_What the fuck_? Happy thought as he gave his sister the hairy eyeball.

"Not all the hang-arounds are strippers, you know," Jax teased.

"I know. Some of them are porn stars, too," Marlowe smirked.

Jax chuckled before taking another drag from his cigarette and flicking the ashes into the ashtray on the table between him and Opie. With a smile still on his handsome face, Jax said soberly, "That was some pretty impressive shit you pulled off out there today. Thank you."

Marlowe raised a surprised eyebrow. _Not at all what I was expecting, but I'll sure as shit take it_.

Allowing herself a slight smile, she nodded. "You're welcome. I'm just glad I was here to help," she replied, just as soberly.

"I understand from my brothers here," Jax started, indicating Kozik and Tig, "that you received your medical training in the Navy and served with the Marines on _three_ tours of duty. Sounds like you went through some shit."

Inwardly wincing, Marlowe took a deep breath and nodded, not eager to volunteer information until she knew where this conversation was going.

"So you did ten years of active duty?" Opie asked, all the hair on his face making it hard for Marlowe to tell if his lips had actually moved.

"Something like that," Marlowe replied cautiously.

Jax quirked an eyebrow at her. "Care to elaborate?"

"Care to tell me what all this is about?" Marlowe countered.

"Jesus Christ, Marlowe! Just answer the fuckin' question," Happy groused.

No longer at ease, Marlowe straightened up and turned to look at Happy. Before she could open her mouth—and possibly have it shut for her by one of Happy's large hands—Jax spoke up.

"Hap told us that you've hit on some hard times recently. No job, no money, and no car. The Club needs someone with medical experience on board and available when needed. Kozik and Tig seem to think you qualify and we're willing to pay you, but I need more information. Is that enough?"

Announcing his scheme earlier to hire Marlowe to handle the Club's medical needs going forward had come as a complete surprise to his brothers. As Jax listened to Kozik and Tig singing Marlowe's praises, however, it dawned on him that having her around would kill two birds with one stone. With Tara distancing herself from him physically as well as emotionally, Jax knew it was only a matter of time before she would put her foot down and refuse to fulfill her role as Club doctor. It was becoming increasingly clear to Jax that the pressures of Club life were getting to Tara. She had already distanced herself from the Clubhouse, only coming to the lot whenever she needed to see Gemma, confining her visits to the office and garage.

Somewhere along the way—since their explosive argument over the Cartel deal and its impact on their plans, as a matter of fact—it had dawned on Jax that Tara was living with one foot out the door. Whether or not she stayed with him depended on whether or not they stayed in Charming. Jax hoped that by having Marlowe take over her responsibilities as the Club's medic, Tara would see that she could have a life in Charming that was unaffected by SAMCRO. It was a long shot, but at the very least it would show Tara that he was genuinely concerned about her welfare.

The fact that he also wanted to keep Marlowe in his orbit in case the chance to fuck her into unconsciousness ever presented itself had absolutely nothing at all to do with the scheme. At least that's what Jax told himself.

Considering that Marlowe had military training and had survived three tours left no doubt in his mind that she could handle her shit, so the arrangement made sense to him as being good for all concerned. A genuine no-brainer. Therefore, Jax was nonplussed by Marlowe's reply to his job offer.

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know," Marlowe said, "but I'm not interested."

Happy started muttering angrily under his breath, causing Jax and Opie to exchange a look before Opie's shoulders started bouncing with silent laughter. "It's only patch up work, Marlowe," Happy growled. "It's not like you don't spend enough time hanging around the Clubhouse anyway. Make yourself useful while you're here."

Marlowe put a hand on a cocked hip and gave Happy a look hot enough to melt wax. "You have some fuckin' nerve telling me to make myself useful. In case you forgot, asshole, I'm just here to take care of Amelia and after she's fully recovered, we're going back to Bakersfield," Marlowe insisted, yet again forgetting herself in front of Happy's brothers.

"I don't know how you plan on getting there, bitch," Happy barked, suddenly also oblivious to the patches sitting around the Redwood table. "The alternator on your cage is shot and the engine's next to go."

Marlowe narrowed her eyes at Happy. "You said you'd have it fixed by Friday," she sputtered.

"I would have said anything to shut you the fuck up!" Happy snapped.

"Obviously! Like claiming to be a mechanic!" Marlowe shot back.

"Hey! I'm a fuckin' awesome mechanic," Happy countered. "What I ain't is a fuckin' magician!"

Pounding the gavel on the table, Jax was finally able to get the battling pair's attention. "We're good," he declared.

"Not really," Marlowe glared at Happy.

"I wasn't asking, darlin'," Jax said, earning himself a little residual heat in the look she flashed him. "Look, the way I see this, unless you have another job in Charming, it makes sense to take this opportunity to earn yourself some cash. I'll even get ya your own room here at the Clubhouse so you can stop crashing on the couch. You'd be close to Happy's mom and if you can't help us out medically, we can always find something else for you to do that'll earn you a salary."

"Dondo's always lookin' for new porn stars," Happy volunteered smugly.

"I know. I'm still waiting to hear back about my audition," Marlowe replied sarcastically, catching Happy off guard. Giving her brother a cheeky smile, she turned her attention back to Jax. "Considering that this is a 'motorcycle club', I'm gonna take a giant leap here and assume you need someone who knows more than just how to administer flu shots, right?"

Jax nodded. "Yep."

Marlowe asked herself what the fuck she was doing. The last thing she really needed was to take on the responsibilities of medic for an outlaw MC. Who knew what kind of shit they were involved in and what kind of impact it would have on her and all the baggage she was dealing with. She had to admit to herself, however, that a part of her couldn't help but be intrigued. Despite the initial shock of being confronted by an injured Wade, once she involved herself in the situation, it felt really good to be of use to someone again.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Bullet wounds. Stab wounds. Broken bones," Jax offered as Marlowe nodded.

_That doesn't sound so bad, _she thought.

Seeing that he had piqued her interest, the SAMCRO Pres tossed a small pad and pen across the table towards her. "We're gonna need your social security number and any aliases you may be known under."

"What for?" Marlowe narrowed her eyes.

"Background check," Opie answered. "We know you're Hap's sister and he has vouched for you, but we still need to be careful. I'm sure you get that shit."

_If that's not the pot calling the kettle black_, Marlowe chuckled to herself bitterly_._

"Am I gonna have to take a piss test, too?" she said, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"Maybe," Jax smiled before throwing her a barely perceptible wink.

Marlowe bit her lip in contemplation. "Can I talk to you, please?" she directed at Jax. "In private?"

Jax was back to appraising her in a way that should have made her uncomfortable, but didn't. "Sure thing, darlin'."

Waiting until his brothers vacated the room, with Hap looking like he was thinking twice about leaving them alone, Jax offered Marlowe Happy's seat. Already dreading disappointment and not sure why, Jax watched as Marlowe sat down and grabbed the pad and pen. She quickly jotted down her full name and social security number and pushed the pad back towards him.

"I think that's all you'll need for the background check. I don't have any aliases," Marlowe said quietly. "Before you run it, though, I want to explain some things that I'm sure are gonna hit your radar when you do." Shifting in her seat, she leaned forward on the table with her hands clasped in front of her. Jax, his eyes never leaving her face, waited for her to continue. "Everything Kozik and Tig shared with you about me is true. I was a Hospital Corpsman in the Navy and only the second woman ever to achieve a FMF rating. I served three tours in Afghanistan with the Marine Corps as a Combat Medic," she explained, already starting to feel a little sick to her stomach. The only person she had shared the whole story with had been Amelia.

Jax felt the corners of his mouth threatening to curl up into a smile. "So, are you a doctor? Kozik and Tig called you 'Doc' a couple of times."

Marlowe shook her head. "No, I'm not a doctor. I am proud to say, however, that I earned that nickname by earning the respect of the battalion I served with and that means more to me than a medical degree ever could," she paused, looking Jax in the eye. "I had a stellar career in the Navy. I loved what I did more than anything else I've ever done—aside from drawing."

Jax smiled, remembering the exact replica of JT's bike she had drawn and given to him. The effect of that smile almost stopped Marlowe's heart in her chest. _He has kind eyes_, Marlowe thought and, before she could stop herself, she found herself sharing the details of her downfall with the SAMCRO President.

Instead of exercising his poker face, Jax found himself drawn in by Marlowe's story, his emotions playing across his handsome features unchecked. As she spoke, Marlowe saw sympathy, righteous anger on her behalf and, most important of all, understanding.

"So you did time in a military prison?" Jax asked with a hint of admiration in his voice. "Must have been tough."

Marlowe shrugged her shoulders. "Compared to Marine training? Nah, I did my time standing on my head," she said and Jax laughed.

"You had nothing to do with the actual incident. Nine months is kinda harsh, don'tcha think?" Jax noted.

"At best, I was looking at eighteen months and anything over a year would have netted me a dishonorable discharge," Marlowe replied. "I lucked out with the best defense Uncle Sam was willing to pay for. My attorney negotiated a deal for nine months of confinement and eighteen months forfeiture of two-thirds of my pay. Unfortunately, losing rank and my FMF rating were non-negotiable, but breaking the chain of command is a serious violation and I was guilty. They were looking to make an example out of me, so I'm lucky I wasn't charged with treason. That would have been harsh."

"Yeah, it would have," Jax agreed dumbfounded. "Isn't the punishment for treason—"

"Death? Yeah, it can be. But let me be clear," Marlowe stated. "I was neither guilty of nor was I charged with treason. I may have acted stupidly and made a bad call, but I'm no traitor."

Jax looked at her for a long time. "Happy know any of this?"

Marlowe shook her head. "No, but his mom does. She's the only other person I've told until just now."

"I understand why you'd tell her, she's like your mom, but why did you tell me?" he queried, more than a little curious.

"You offered me a job."

"Which you turned down."

"But which I have now reconsidered after providing you with full disclosure," Marlowe smiled. "That is, if you still want me."

Jax bit his lip in an effort to keep from smiling and failed miserably. "Let there be no doubt, darlin'. I still want ya."

"For the _job_," Marlowe emphasized with a knowing smile.

Jax laughed. "For that too."

"Good, because I think I could be of some use to the Club," Marlowe responded confidently. "But just so we're clear, the reason I'm in Charming at all is Amelia Lowman. Happy brought her here to keep an eye on her, but with him on the road much of the time, I'm here to support him. Right now, though, I don't see how that's possible once she's moved to the rehab in Modesto without a car."

Jax shook his head slightly as he lit another cigarette. "That's not a problem, darlin'. Barring any emergencies, I'm sure you'll be able to balance taking care of Hap's mom and your responsibilities to the Club. As far as a ride goes, I can hook you up with something until your own piece of shit gets fixed and as promised, I'll get one of the croweaters to clear out a dorm and get it ready for you. Anything else you need to share?"

"No, I told you everything," Marlowe replied honestly. "I need you to do me a favor, though."

"If it's in within my power, darlin'," Jax smiled. "Anything you need me to do will be my pleasure."

Marlowe lifted an eyebrow, making a mental note to remember that. After all, she was a woman with eyes and a sex-starved libido. "What we just discussed, and anything that may come up in your background check, I'd appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself for now. Happy doesn't know any of it and when he does hear about it, he deserves to hear it from me. Agreed?"

"Absolutely," Jax replied. "You've got my word."

_Somehow, something tells me that Marlowe is gonna fit in around here just fine. _

* * *

Closing the Chapel door behind her, Marlowe quickly made her way to Happy's dorm. After the debriefing she had just endured and with the Clubhouse now empty, she was really looking forward to a shower and her couch. But swinging the door open, Marlowe was confronted by the reason why it was going to be a minute before she got either.

Happy was stretched out on his bed, smoking a cigarette as he aimlessly flipped through one of the biker skin mags he kept in his room. "About fuckin' time," he growled as he tossed it aside and stood up. Happy had been waiting for almost an hour for Marlowe to wrap up her "private" talk with Jax, his anger and resentment growing steadily as the minutes ticked by.

However, before he could open his mouth to take a chunk out of her ass, Marlowe put up a hand. "Don't even, Hap," she said in a hard, no-nonsense tone. "I mean it this time. I let you drag me into the Chapel, but right now I am not in the fuckin' mood for your bullshit."

"I don't give a fuck what mood you're in, so put a leash on that PMS shit 'cause we're having this out. _Right now_."

Marlowe looked up at her brother and seeing the implacable look etched on his face, suddenly realized that she didn't give a fuck. "No, we're not," she said coldly. "What is happening is that I'm going into that bathroom," she pointed at the door, "and I am taking a long, hot shower and then I'm going to get some sleep. And you're gonna stay out of my way," she tossed over her shoulder as she headed towards the bathroom. "I didn't spend the last ten years dodging bullets and sidestepping IEDs just to come back home and take shit from you. I am not that poor, pathetic little girl who used to run after you, begging for scraps of affection. We'll settle this shit between us, but only when _I'm _good and damn ready," Marlowe raged at a stunned speechless Happy before slamming the door shut.

Stripping off her clothes, she hastily turned on the shower, hoping that the noise of the spray would drown out the sounds of her muffled sobs.

* * *

Striding towards his bike, Happy knew that he would probably spend the rest of the night on his ride. It was the only thing that ever really calmed him down when all he wanted was to make someone bleed. Right now, as waves of anger washed over him—as they usually did whenever he let his mind wander to thoughts of Marlowe—he knew that putting distance between them was the way to go.

_Begging for scraps of affection from you_.

Those words had hit him right in the middle of his chest and only because, on some level, Marlowe had been right. He had removed the young girl from the rat-infested hellhole her mother had condemned her to and in her eyes, Happy had become her savior and hero. He then proceeded to pawn her off on his mother, making rare visits to Bakersfield only because he really had no clue how to interact with little girls and the last thing he wanted to do was something stupid that would spoil his rock star image in the eyes of one young girl in particular.

Although he would never admit it out loud, Marlowe's opinion of him had always meant a lot to him. It humbled him and reminded him that, in spite of all he had done and seen, he was still human. So he was more than a little blindsided when he realized that his opinion held no weight with the stubborn young woman she had grown into.

That alone had fueled his anger for the last ten years. Not only had she gone against his advice, but she didn't seem to give a flying fuck that putting herself in harm's way affected more people than just Marlowe Guthrie. For years, Happy had suffered from the same recurring nightmare of having to watch—unable to do anything about it—as his mother opened the door to two uniformed officers from the armed services bearing bad news from the front line. After all his mother had done for her, Marlowe never gave a second thought to just what her dying would do to Amelia Lowman.

_Or what it would do to me_.

It never occurred to the outlaw biker either that his mother and sister had lived with that same fear for as long as he continued to wear his beloved kutte. Instead, Happy gunned his ride and ripped out of the T-M parking lot to lose his himself and his anger on the open road.

* * *

**A/N: 23 reviews for the last chapter! You guys are my ROCK STARS! Please keep them coming! And for those who are anxious for Happy and Marlowe to have a heart-to-heart, don't be. That long-time-in-coming conversation will happen soon, I promise. Much Love, Harlee.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Thursday, May 13, 2010**_

Happy was not—for lack of a better word—_happy_.

Shoving his size fourteens into his boots, the outlaw biker angrily tugged the cuffs of his jeans over his footwear before standing up to cross the room to his chest of drawers. From there he retrieved his favorite holster and strapping it over a white t-shirt, went back to the side of his bed for his Glock. Checking to make sure that a bullet was loaded into the chamber and that the clip was full, he shoved the gun into the holster. Stomping across the room once again, he picked up his kutte that was hanging neatly from the back of the chair in the corner. Shrugging it on, Happy finally grabbed his pack of smokes and lighter, followed by his wallet with a long metal chain he clipped to his belt buckle, prepay, bike glasses, gloves and shades before striding with purpose to the door.

He was on a mission to find his sister and when he did, he was going to tear her a new asshole.

It had taken him a good long minute, but his ride the night before had finally done the trick. After almost three solid hours of riding with his bike rumbling steadily under him, Happy had managed to bring his rage level down to a low simmer. Only then did he feel safe enough to return to the Clubhouse just to have his rage flare up once again when he found Marlowe curled up on the sofa instead of in his dorm where she belonged.

Happy had been ready to bark at her to get her ass up, but suddenly stopped himself. He wasn't entirely sure that his recollection was correct, but Happy couldn't remember ever seeing Marlowe sleep in the past two weeks. Being that she shared his dorm, he found it odd but he was sure that every time he'd gone into his room to crash, Marlowe had been awake. She would then grab her sketchbook and pencils, and take off for parts unknown. Studying her in a rare unguarded moment, Marlowe's sleep appeared to be anything but restful and peaceful like that of some of the bitches he'd had the misfortune of waking up next to over the years.

Instead, she looked tense, irritable, and—to his surprise—tortured. Watching her closely as her eyes moved restlessly under almost-translucent lids, he had been startled by the soft moan he heard escape her lips. Although the biker had already been standing stock still, Happy had actually stopped breathing as Marlowe's arms and legs started twitching and flailing about as her moans increased in volume.

_Shit_, he thought uneasily. _Is she having a nightmare or a fuckin' seizure?_

About to shake her awake, Marlowe suddenly quieted down, her chest rising and falling as if she were trying to calm herself until finally she lay still again. Wondering if this was the norm for her and the reason she never seemed to sleep, Happy reconsidered his need to wake her up and chew her out. At a loss for what to do next, Happy had retreated to his dorm for a restless night of his own.

Marlowe may have caught him off-guard the night before by slamming the bathroom door in his face, but it was a brand new day and Happy was determined to get to the bottom of some shit. Resolved to wake her up and drag her ass back to the dorm where he could throttle her without an audience, Happy headed down the hall.

_She's gonna tell me everything I want to know or I'm pulling out my bag of tricks. We'll see how fuckin' tough she is then._

So it totally sucked ass when the outlaw stalked into the main room and looked over at the sofa—

Only to find it empty.

"What the fuck?" Happy muttered under his breath.

"Uh, you looking for Doc?" a voice asked from behind the bar and Happy turned around to see Filthy Phil pouring a mug of hot coffee.

"Yeah, I'm looking for _Doc_. Where the fuck is she?" Happy growled.

Phil nearly swallowed his tongue before replying. "She left for St. Thomas about twenty minutes ago, right after her morning run."

Happy scowled. "She tell you that?"

The Prospect shook his curly head. "Not really. I just notice shit is all," he replied casually. "She usually ends her run by having breakfast at that coffee shop across the street from the Hairy Dog—an egg white omelet with spinach and black coffee and a blueberry muffin to go—before heading back here for a shower. She didn't stop there today. I think she decided to pick up breakfast on her way to the hospital this morning instead." Phil shrugged as Happy looked at him suspiciously, not opening his mouth. "I've been in there a couple of times and seen her come in for breakfast in running gear. I don't think she buys those muffins for herself, either. They must be for your mom 'cause she's _really_ buff." Seeing the SAA's eyes darken dramatically, Filthy Phil hastily stammered, "N—not that I was checking her out or stalking her or anything."

Happy looked at him for a long moment. "You ever wanna patch in, you need to learn to be a better liar," he finally said, shocking the Prospect.

Hearing the Chapel doors open, Happy turned in time to see Jax and Opie walk out. The President swaggered over to slap a hand on his SAA's shoulder.

"Glad to see you're up early, Hap. We need to head over to the warehouse, make sure all those auto part crates are finished and double check the hardware before packing up the merch. We're leaving bright and early tomorrow," Jax paused as he eyed Happy. "You a'ight, bro?"

"Yeah," Happy said after a moment. "I had some shit to take care of, but I guess it can wait."

"Good. Let's ride," Jax replied as he headed towards the door.

_Strike two!_

Pulling on his gloves, Happy followed Jax and Opie out the Clubhouse door. It seemed that fate was keeping an eye on his sister and preventing him from giving her a proper ass reaming, but Happy remained undeterred.

_Sooner or later, I'm gonna catch up with that bratty bitch._

* * *

Pulling her caddy into her designated parking spot, Gemma Teller-Morrow flipped down the car's sun visor to check her appearance in the mirror. Satisfied that she looked perfectly put together as usual, she flipped the visor back up and, grabbing her metal-studded black leather handbag, exited the car.

The SAMCRO matriarch was a firm believer in the old adage that looking good meant feeling good as was evident in her confident stride and the swing of her still-tight ass fitted into a pair of dark wash skinny jeans. Because the air was still nippy in the mornings, Gemma had been forced to cover up her low-cut blouse with a short, fitted leather jacket. However, she was sporting a pair of kick-ass open-toed high heels to showcase her French-manicured toes as an ode to spring time in Charming.

Entering the office adjacent to the garage, Gemma dropped her handbag on the black and white plaid couch against the wall. Having seen no sign of Chucky or his baby blue Vespa anywhere on the lot, she grimaced, her worst fear confirmed as she noticed the still-empty coffee pot sitting atop the filing cabinet across the room.

Stepping up to her desk, Gemma noted that the large stack of invoices she had left undone her last time in the office two nights ago was gone. "Hallelujah! At least Nubs got some shit done during my time off," she muttered as she made her way out of the office and towards the Clubhouse for some coffee.

She could only wish she had been as productive as Chucky had obviously been these last couple of days. Instead, Gemma had wasted time going to and from Oakland with her stubborn, pigheaded old man. After Clay had made the decision to step down as SAMCRO's President, Gemma had campaigned, nagging him relentlessly about looking into the experimental surgery that could alleviate the worst of his arthritis symptoms before his condition worsened and ended up crippling him.

After a lot of bullying and more than a few blow jobs, Clay had begrudgingly agreed to "check" out the procedure. Gemma had wasted no time in getting him a stand-by appointment with the exceptionally busy specialist based in Oakland and recommended by Tara. As far as she could tell, Clay was keeping an open mind until he spoke to the surgeon and had a chance to consider all his options.

At least that was what Clay had told her. Apparently, that had been a crock of shit on his part just to get her off his ass and on her knees. After waiting hours for an opening in the doctor's schedule, the highly-anticipated meet had rapidly turned into a dismal failure. Even though the doctor seemed quite competent and well-educated in treating Clay's form of debilitating arthritis with surgery, between the waiting room and consultation room, Clay had morphed into a petulant teenage girl. Being totally unreasonable and contrary as the doctor tried to get a sense of Clay's medical history, her old man had simply stood up and stomped out of the office.

After that, what should have been happy, quiet time for the couple during the rest of Gemma's time off had turned into bonding time with her grandson. Not in the mood to go back into her daily grind back at the garage, she had asked Tara to give Elyda the rest of the day off so she could spend it watching Abel at Jax's house. T-M would survive without her for another day, she reasoned, and as far as Gemma knew, it had been business as usual on the lot while she had been gone.

Entering the Clubhouse, Gemma quickly spotted one of her favorite patches and headed for the bar. "So how was the gig in Tahoe, Elvis? Did you shake and shimmy that ass of yours for all your fans on social security?" she teased as she plopped herself down on a stool.

Bobby turned around with a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of freshly sliced banana bread in the other. "You know I did! Have to give the ladies what they want. Even had a few grannies sitting at the front table throw a couple of dollars at me. Really made my night," the shaggy-haired man grinned as he reached over the bar to buss Gemma on the cheek. "Can I get ya a cup?" He held out a mug.

"Yes, please! I could definitely use a hit after the day I had yesterday," Gemma replied, thinking about how exhausting taking care of an infant really was.

"I heard about that shit," Bobby said as he poured her a cup. "I'm gone a couple of days and all hell breaks loose." His smile quickly started fading as he noted Gemma's quizzical expression.

"What are you talking about?" Gemma asked with much concern.

"What are _you_ talking about, Gem?" Bobby asked in return.

"My grandson. I spent the day with Abel and he wore my ass out," Gemma replied. "What happened here yesterday?" she asked, automatically thinking the worse.

"One of the Prospects told me there was an accident in the garage. Apparently, Wade sliced his thumb off with a circular saw," he said, at once sober realizing that the Club matriarch had no clue what he was talking about.

"_What_?" Gemma breathed, putting her cup down. "When the fuck did this happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Oh shit," she murmured, running long fingers through her platinum-streaked hair. "That's awful!"

"Could have been a lot worse, but I heard one of the girls patched him up and kept him calm until the paramedics showed up," Bobby related.

Gemma nodded her head, somewhat relieved. Suddenly, she stopped and looked at Bobby with wide brown eyes that quickly narrowed. "What girl?"

Bobby took a good long look at the Queen's suddenly hunched shoulders and gimlet stare that burned vicious holes into his skull and sighed heavily. "I don't know what I said, but I'm getting the eerie feeling that I just stuck my foot in some shit_._"

* * *

Exiting her office, Dr. Tara Knowles headed for the elevator that would take her to the third floor recovery unit. She was actually due in surgery in about 45 minutes, but overhearing several nurses as they passed by her discuss a patient that had been brought in late yesterday afternoon had piqued her interest.

_A severed thumb_, she thought, wrinkling her brow. _I wonder why Jax didn't mention it._

Although she didn't like it, Tara had grown accustomed to having the Club tug her away from her very important work as a neonatal surgeon in order to patch up Club members who had caught bullets with their asses or stopped fists with their faces. Considering that she had been on her way home from work at the time, Tara thought it was rather strange that the first time there had been a legitimate need for her services down at T-M, she had been the last to hear about it.

Not that she wanted to look a gift horse in the mouth. _After all, it's not like I want to be around the Club right now anyway_, she thought as she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The truth of the matter was, Tara was dreading tomorrow and SAMCRO's first road trip to deliver the Cartel's gun shipment. On their return to Charming, the Club would be loaded down with a shit load of money.

_And drugs_.

As if running guns wasn't dangerous enough, now Tara had a whole new set of possibilities to worry about. All it would take was one cop getting suspicious or a bystander noticing something out of the ordinary for Jax and the Club to end up doing some hard time. The fourteen months she had waited for him to get out of Stockton had almost crushed her. The chances Jax was taking with his freedom now were purely selfish. If he left her alone again—this time for years—Tara couldn't picture herself waiting around for him. Putting her life on hold for a man who might never get out of prison again was not what she had signed on for, in spite of the fact that Gemma might argue to the contrary.

No longer feeling like she was in between a rock and a hard place, Tara now felt truly cornered, her window of opportunity for escape growing increasingly smaller the longer she stayed in Charming. The surgical positions she had been offered by several hospitals would be filled by others if she didn't make a decision soon and without her career Tara would truly be left with nothing.

Shoving her worries and fears aside, she decided that for the present time, she would at least try to do her duty as an old lady and pay a visit to check on the status of the mechanic injured at T-M the day before. Stepping off the elevator, Tara headed for the recovery unit, turning the corner and nearly colliding head-on with—

_Gemma_.

"Hey, where's the fire?"

Tara gasped, her hand flying to the base of her throat. "Oh, hey, Gemma. I'm so sorry. Did I hit you?"

"Not at all, sweetheart," Gemma replied with a smile.

"I guess you're here to see the mechanic who lost his thumb yesterday," Tara noted.

"Uh, yeah. I heard it was re-attached," she said and Tara nodded her head. "And you? You're here to check on Wade too?"

"Yeah, I thought I should stop by and see how he's doing," Tara responded. "I would've been here earlier, but Jax didn't mention anything to me about the accident this morning at breakfast."

"Well, he does have a lot on his mind lately," Gemma retorted and got a sharp look from Tara.

"I understand someone from the Club brought him in," Tara said quizzically.

"Uh, yeah. Chibs was on hand."

"Well, it's a good thing he was there," Tara opined. "I heard Wade was very close to bleeding out."

"Yeah, well, that's good ol' Chibs for ya," Gemma replied. "It's good of you to stop by, but I'm here now. I'll represent," she smiled nonchalantly. "I know you must be busy."

Raising an eyebrow, Tara was wondering why Gemma was being so solicitous. Opening her mouth to question her further, she was tapped on the shoulder and turned around to see Margaret Murphy.

"Dr. Knowles, I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Anderson surgery has been moved up and Dr. Namid and the team are waiting for you in Operating Room 5," she said, nodding politely at Gemma.

"Okay, thanks for tracking me down." Tara smiled before turning to face Gemma again. "I guess I won't be able to see him now after all. If you could let him know that I'll try to swing by later in the afternoon that would be great."

"No problem," Gemma said with a bright smile on her face until Tara disappeared down the hall towards the elevator bank.

* * *

Left standing in the corridor with the hospital administrator, Gemma sniffed softly and eyed the other woman. Seeing the woman look coolly down her nose at her before turning to leave, Gemma's eyes narrowed. "Snotty nosed bitch," she murmured before turning on her heel and heading down the corridor to complete her mission.

Hoping to avoid an angina attack, Gemma closed her eyes and took several deep breaths in an effort to calm her rapidly beating heart. After about a minute, the SAMCRO matriarch opened her eyes and congratulated herself on delaying Tara enough to keep her from running into the new girl in town.

_Whatever poor child is undergoing surgery has my eternal gratitude and hopes for the best_, she thought grimly as she continued her way towards the injured mechanic's room.

It was obvious that something was definitely off with Jax and Tara, of that Gemma was sure. It had been several weeks since the boys had returned to Charming and Gemma had yet to see the engagement ring she had gone through the trouble of securing for Jax on Tara's finger. Mentioning that fact in passing to her son, Jax had brushed her off while mumbling cryptically about the timing not being right. But Gemma hadn't been the old lady of two SAMCRO Presidents and matriarch of the Club for over 30 years without picking up a thing or two. By now, her sense for sniffing out trouble was as fine-tuned as the bullshit meter she had developed as soon as Jackson had hit puberty.

Up until that morning, Gemma had suspected that Jax and Tara were only now starting to deal with the grief over the loss of their unborn baby. That in itself could put serious stress on a relationship. Mix that with the guilt Jax felt regarding the terrifying ordeal Tara had suffered at the hands of Hector Salazar and you had a recipe for estrangement. After learning about Wade's accident, however, first from Bobby and later in greater detail from Kozik, Gemma now had a pretty good idea why she wasn't knee deep in wedding preparations.

_It's always the same with my boy_, Gemma lamented. _It's always about the pussy_.

Apparently, there was fresh meat hanging around the Clubhouse, but with the excitement of having her old man and her son home and with Jax taking over the Club, Gemma couldn't be bothered to notice that there was an extra croweater added to the line-up. After all, one Club whore was the same as another, right?

_Wrong_.

Actually, as it turned out, this one wasn't a croweater after all, but an actual relative of her son's SAA. That alone had shocked Gemma. Aside hearing about a mother no one had ever met, she had just assumed that Happy didn't have any other family. But even that situation was a little murky because, according to Kozik, the young woman wasn't an actual blood relative. His sister, but not really—whatever the fuck that meant. It didn't really matter one way or another because what had actually stopped her dead in her tracks was what Kozik had said next.

_Jax seems really impressed with her._

_Fuck! I know what that means_, Gemma thought at the time. _That's code speak for his dick gets hard whenever she's around_!

Gemma loved her son, would maim, kill or die for Jackson Nathaniel Teller, but not even a mother's love could blind her to the fact that her son was a man-whore. He loved pussy, which made him like every other outlaw biker to ever wear a kutte and ride a Harley, and Gemma knew that it was likely he would never change. Even with Tara back in his life, for Jax to stop wanting pussy, he'd have to stop breathing first.

Hearing that Jax was "impressed" by another woman made the small hairs on the back of Gemma's neck stand up at attention. Wasting no time, she left Chucky at the garage while she went to St. Thomas to visit "Wade", hoping she'd run into the new Clubhouse celebrity known as Marlowe. The last thing her son needed was another woman trying to push up on him while he was feeling vulnerable in his relationship with Tara. Running into her would-be daughter-in-law, Gemma had been careful not to do or say anything that would put her on her son's shit list for arousing suspicion in his old lady that Jax had any kind of interest in another woman.

Finally arriving at Room 342, Gemma paused for a moment to prepare herself mentally as she opened the door.

Sitting upright in his hospital bed, his overly bandaged left hand resting on a pillow on his lap, Wade was saying as Gemma pushed open the door, "The doctor said that thanks to your quick thinking, he was able to reattach my thumb. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay you, Doc, for what you did for me."

"I'm just glad I was there to help," Marlowe replied, before looking up to see a tall and rather attractive older woman standing in the doorway.

"Hi, Gemma," Wade greeted cheerfully from his bed.

"Hi, Wade," Gemma walked in, holding a vase of flowers. "This is a little nontraditional—me bringing flowers to a man—but somehow I didn't think your girlfriend would appreciate me loading you up with skin mags," she said, placing the flowers on the table by the bed, next to the television remote and phone.

The ginger-haired mechanic grinned. "Maybe not, but Nina don't have to know shit about it. It would certainly keep me entertained."

"So I take it you're not a lefty, huh?" Gemma smiled knowingly. "I'll keep it in mind for next time." Pausing, Gemma looked to her right as if seeing Marlowe for the first time. "Are you gonna introduce me to your friend here, Wade?" she asked archly.

"Oh, hey, yeah," he started. "Doc—"

"Actually," the young woman interrupted, "its Marlowe."

Gemma held out a hand. "Gemma," she replied simply as Marlowe shook it.

Making a lightning fast assessment, the first words to flash across Gemma's mind as she examined the young woman were "fashion victim". The cut-off white t-shirt with the word "NAVY" emblazoned in blue lettering across the front of a small but nice rack was worn, yet clean. Paired with khaki cargo pants draped over slim hips and combat boots, her incredibly flat and cut abs were on display. To call the look casual was being generous, but despite the complete lack of feminine touches anywhere, Marlowe pulled it off.

_She's definitely easy on the eyes_, Gemma thought, taking in the slender curve of high cheekbones, a set of startling gray eyes and yards of wavy caramel-colored hair. _And those lips!_ She marveled, wondering if they were natural. Considering that the rest of her appeared to be, Gemma assumed they were. Those lips were what her biker boys would definitely call "DSLs" or dick-sucking lips. _She's pretty, but so totally not Jax's type_, she thought, recalling Wendy's lush curves and Tara's soft, innocent features. _That, however, might not be a deterrent. The only thing better than old pussy is new pussy, especially when it's in different packaging. _

"I understand we have you to thank for saving Stumpy here."

Gemma watched as the young woman arched an eyebrow at the crude nickname. "No stumps here," she replied pointedly. "Wade has a complete set of digits on both hands once again. He's going to be in therapy for a long while, but the surgeon believes his situation looks very promising."

"Yeah, Gem, and I hope to get back to work as soon as I can—" Wade started.

Gemma tore her eyes away from Marlowe to look at the long-time T-M mechanic. "Don't you worry about that, Wade. I know Jax told you your job is safe, so just concentrate on healing," she assured him. "Now, I have some errands to run so I better go, but I'll send one of the Prospects over with those mags for ya." Turning to face Marlowe again, she said, "Care to walk me out?"

It was clearly apparent to Gemma that the woman wasn't at all interested, but as she continued to focus her unwavering stare on her, Marlowe shrugged her shoulders and gesturing towards the door followed behind her.

Normally, Gemma wouldn't concern herself with Jax hitting hot new pussy, even if he had an old lady. It was part of the Life and none of her business. After all, what happened on a run stayed on a run. But _this_ was Charming and Gemma knew the devastation of finding out her old man had catted around on her when a sweetbutt followed him home once. She also knew Tara had already experienced that same kind of devastation when Jax had tapped the porn slut that had been sniffing around him right under her nose.

Old ladies forgave their men a lot of shit, but they never forgot, and Gemma was sure Tara still felt the sting of that betrayal. Coupled with the rough patch they were obviously going through, the last thing Jax needed was getting distracted by some new woman just because she was radically different from what normally hung around the Clubhouse. Now as she headed towards the room's exit with Marlowe following behind her, Gemma smirked to herself.

_This oughtta be interesting_.

* * *

Now that the two women were alone just steps away from Wade's room, Marlowe's face was impassive as the woman seemed to take her time in looking her over, and to Marlowe it felt strangely familiar to be appraised in such a manner.

"So," Gemma started, crossing her arms over her chest. "You weren't putting a happy face on Wade's situation?"

"No," Marlowe said briefly. "His surgeon is quite happy with the outcome."

"Lucky for Wade you were Johnny-on-the-spot or that wouldn't be the case, though," Gemma smiled.

"Yeah, I guess he was."

_What is up with this broad_, Marlowe thought with some irritation. _Whoever she is, all she's getting from me is name, rank and serial number._

"You see, I thought I knew all of the croweaters down on the lot, but I understand from Kozik that you're actually related to Happy."

_Is this bitch deliberately trying to bait my ass? _Marlowe thought with some irritation. Instead she chose to keep her answers short.

"Hap's my brother and, no, I am _not_ a croweater."

_Well, shit. She must be Hap's sister after all. The pair are definitely not the talkie-types, unless you get under their skin. _

"Plan on staying in Charming long?"

"Not long," Marlowe replied.

Gemma paused for a beat. "Can you define 'not long'?"

"Can I know who's asking?" Marlowe crossed her arms in imitation of Gemma.

"It's _Gemma_," the woman said in a slightly irritated voice. "Didn't you hear Wade in there?"

"Oh, I heard him," Marlowe replied with the same amount of irritation. "That still doesn't tell me who you _are_."

_Smartass_, Gemma thought as she eyed the belligerent women. "I'm Gemma _Teller_-Morrow," she grinned as the woman's eyes widened. "Jax's mother."

"All right."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"_Congratulations?_" Marlowe quirked an eyebrow as Gemma stared daggers at her. "I'm gonna head out now, grab something to eat—" she started and stopped, a sudden shit-eating grin overtaking her face. "You know, if you have some time, maybe you'd like to stop by and introduce yourself to Happy's mom. She's only here for a few more days recovering from knee replacement surgery before she relocates to a rehab facility in Modesto. She's in Room 354, right around the corner," Marlowe supplied helpfully.

"Maybe I'll do that, "Gemma replied.

_Maybe indeed._

* * *

Hearing someone lightly tapping on her door, Amelia Lowman turned her attention away from _The View_ playing on the flat screen TV above her bed and eyed the woman who poked her head into the room. Having become familiar and friendly with all of the hospital staff on her floor, Amelia gave the striking woman the once over from the comfort of her bed before speaking.

"May I help you?" she asked quietly, her slightly accented voice echoing in the room.

Pushing the door open, the woman stepped inside carrying a small potted plant. "I was here earlier visiting one of my employees and I was told that your room was right down the hall. I thought I'd be neighborly and stop in to introduce myself. I'm Gemma Teller-Morrow," Gemma explained and held out her free hand.

Amelia returned the hand shake with a gentle, but firm grip. "Amelia Lowman," she replied. "It's very nice of you to stop by. Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to the chair next to her bed.

Gemma set the plant on the tray table before sitting down and Amelia used the opportunity to take a good long look. If she remembered correctly, the woman was—as she recalled Kique calling them—an "old lady", and an attractive one at that, considering that she was probably in her 50's.

_She dresses a little too young for her age_, Amelia thought with amusement. _But she actually pulls it off well_.

At the same time, Gemma was also making an appraisal. Despite being in bed, she could see that Happy's mother was nearly as tall as she was and sitting in an upright position against several pillows, she looked very regal, almost elegant in a rose-colored bed jacket. Smooth and unlined skin stretched across a face that despite its age, still retained much of its beauty. With her dark hair pulled back into a sleek yet intricate roll at the nape of her neck, Amelia's oval face was strong and Gemma could most certainly see the resemblance between mother and son.

"What a beautiful plant. Thank you very much for your kindness," Amelia began. "I just love African Violets."

"You're welcome. I'm glad to hear I chose wisely," Gemma replied. "I wish I could take credit for growing it myself, but this one came from the flower shop downstairs. I should give growing them a try."

Amelia brightened. "You garden?"

"Oh yes, and I love it. I have a small greenhouse."

"I too have a small garden back home in Bakersfield. There is something very comforting about working in the soil," Amelia sighed. "But with my bad knee, I haven't been able to do it myself in a very long time."

"Well, now that you have a new one, hopefully that will change," Gemma said, smiling. "I'm sorry that I didn't stop by sooner, but no one actually mentioned that you were in Charming or in St. Thomas for that matter. You would think that as long as I've known Happy, I would remember that's he's not the most talkative of men."

"Oh yes, Kique tends to be very protective of his privacy," Amelia responded.

" 'Kique' ? Who's that?" Gemma asked with a wrinkled brow.

"Kique," Amelia said with a smile, "is my pet name for my son. His name at birth was Enrique Manuel Lowman Lopez."

"Are you shitting me?" Gemma leaned back in her chair and laughed long and hard. "You know, I never knew that. From the day he stepped onto the lot he's always been 'Happy', nothing else."

Amelia shook her head. "And it's a misnomer if I ever heard one, too. Why would anyone call that sourpuss 'Happy' ?"

Gemma chuckled, admiring Amelia's frankness. "My late-husband gave him that name," she replied, a wry smile on her face. "From the moment they met in Chino, John said that it was the perfect name for him. He didn't have a lot to be happy about back then, from what I recall," she said quietly.

"No, my boy didn't," Amelia sighed. "But I am. Happy, that is," she smiled. "Even though it's twenty years too late, from one mother to another, I want to say thank you for what your husband did in protecting my only son."

Gemma nodded simply. "And I'd like to thank you too, for raising a good and loyal man who is now protecting _my_ son."

Amelia shook her head. "What is it about mothers and sons, no? We love them so fiercely, would do anything for them, forgive them for shit that we would _never _take from their fathers and spoil their asses even when they're ungrateful, yet we love them so much."

"Too true," Gemma grinned, surprised that another woman could so vividly mirror the love and devotion she had for own son Jackson. "You know, the first time I met Happy, I knew he was a mama's boy. Tough, tattooed and scary he might be, but _I_ had to teach his ass how to do his own laundry—"

"What?! My Kique knows how to do laundry?!" Amelia exclaimed, the disbelief clear in her voice. "You must be pulling on my good leg!"

Gemma laughed raucously. "I swear I'm not. He had to do his own laundry before patching into the Club." Gemma watched as the woman sank back into her bed and laughed until tears ran down her face.

"I can't believe it," Amelia shook her head, swiping at her face with a tissue. "I can't wait to tell Marley! She is going to piss herself!"

_Ah, _Gemma thought. _Now we're getting somewhere._

"Speaking of Marlowe," Gemma started cautiously. "I was told that she's Happy's sister. For some reason, I always thought he was an only child."

Amelia finished mopping her face. "Well, yes, that's true enough. At least until Kique brought Marley home with him one day."

"Brought her home?" Gemma pressed. "You mean like a lost puppy?"

"Something like that," Amelia said soberly. "But Marley's is family now, always will be. I am grateful and feel very blessed to have such a loving daughter in my life."

"I've always been all about boys, myself," Gemma admitted thinking about her tumultuous relationship with her deceased mother. "Personally, I think all women with mother issues should have the option of drowning their daughters at birth, saving them from all the pain and suffering."

Amelia shook her head with a mixture of shock and amusement. "It sounds like you haven't been blessed yet. But you have a son, no? Surely one day you will have a daughter-in-law and you may feel differently."

_I don't know about that_, Gemma thought, but didn't say, feeling a twinge of remorse_._

"I do have an almost-daughter-in-law," she replied. "My son's old lady."

"Well, maybe you need to just give it some time then," Amelia said with a bemused smile. "Besides, this almost-daughter-in-law of yours is probably still learning how to deal with her 'mama's boy'."

"Oh no, no, no. See, I didn't raise a mama's boy," Gemma retorted.

Amelia gave Gemma a sideways look. "It takes one to know one, Amiga," she sassed. "At least in this instance, you are—as they say—my sister from another mister."

It was just as the two older women were laughing that Marlowe walked into the room. _Leave it to T__í__a to make fast and furious friends with Cruella De Vil_, she thought as she rolled her eyes. _The one time I actually want her to stick it to somebody and she's making nice._

"So I see you two are getting to know each other," she said crossing her arms.

"Yes, hija, and have I some very interesting shit to share with you that will have you rolling on the floor," Amelia said with a smile. "You know, as hard as I fought against coming to Charming, I'm glad I let Happy drag my ass here. Even though it's only for a few months, I'm already starting to feel at home."

_Hallelujah! _Gemma barely kept herself from throwing her hands up in the air.

"So this is just a brief stay for you?" Gemma asked nonchalantly.

"Yes, once my therapy is complete, Marley and I will return to Bakersfield. If everything goes according to plan that should be by August."

"Well, then, I hope that everything works out the way you've planned," Gemma said brightly.

The fact was that Gemma was surprised at how much she liked Happy's mother. She certainly wasn't what she had been expecting and Gemma certainly had an appreciation for fierce mothers like herself. It would have been nice getting to know Amelia Lowman better, but Jackson and his future happiness were all that mattered to Gemma right now. She couldn't shake the feeling that Marlowe would be nothing but trouble for her son.

_Family may mean everything to me, but the sooner Happy's family gets out of town, the better._

* * *

**A/N: As always, thank you so much for all your reviews. They are always very much appreciated, especially when they include ways to improve the story by making it easier to understand. I want to thank alleycat who dropped a new writing term on me. Up until a couple of days ago I had never heard of "head hopping" even though I seem to be using it a lot in my stories. I've done my research on it and plan to limit its use going forward. **

**However, head hopping (multiple POVs in one scene) is sometimes unavoidable for me. As I explained in my long-winded author's note in Chapter 1, I am trying to give insight into all the characters and I think that sharing their POVs is somewhat important in telling this story. I do realize that it can get confusing for the reader, so I will make an effort to avoid overusing or overdoing it. :)**

**As always, I hope you continue reading and reviewing. Please note that I do sincerely appreciate all constructive criticism as I am not a professional writer nor have I ever taken any writing courses, so the sharing of knowledge is always welcomed. That being said, please don't y'all flood me with it all at once! :)**

**Hugs, Harlee.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

**A/N: ****Happy New Year! ****I hope all is well with ****with everyone****. I've ****missed posting and hearing from you guys, but I've ****been on hiatus ****for ****the holiday****s. ****I had considered posting a couple of chapters over the last two weeks, but I figured that ****everyone ****would be far too busy with holiday and family obligations (like I was) for reading fan fics. ****I did, however****, ****receive many new story ****and fav ****alerts and for that I want to thank each and every one of you****. I ****really ****missed hearing from you guys and hope to see some reviews from you soon. Much ****l****ove, Harlee.**

* * *

_**Friday, May 14, 2010**_

_I love long runs. All your problems, all the noise—gone. Nothing else to worry about except for what's right in front of you. Maybe that's the lesson for me today. To hold onto these simple moments, appreciate them a little more. There's not many of them left. I don't want that for you. Finding things that make you happy shouldn't be so hard. I know you will face pain, suffering, hard choices, but you can't let the weight of that choke the joy out of life. No matter what, you have to find joy in the things you love. Run to them. There's an old saying, "that which does not kill you, makes you stronger". I don't believe that. I think that things that try to kill you make you angry and sad. Strength comes from the good things—your family, your friends, the satisfaction of doing hard work. Those are the things that will keep you whole. Those are the things to hold onto when you're broken._

Jax paused and looked up from his journal to watch his sleeping son through the narrow bars of his crib. Arms stretched wide and totally relaxed, Abel was enjoying the sleep of babes, unaware of the problems and stress his old man faced on a daily basis.

_If only I could be so unaware of my world, a crazy reality entirely of my own making_, the outlaw thought as he gazed with compassion on his son. _A life I want to change, but I'm not sure that will ever be possible_.

It was early with dawn just starting to break as Jax sat in the nursery, trying to capture on paper the feelings and emotions that weighed heavily on him. This wasn't the first time in his life that Jax had taken to writing down his thoughts, but since his stint in Stockton, he was now doing it regularly. Taking the time to write shit down—keeping track of his thoughts regarding situations he dealt with on a daily basis—was helping him make some sense of the murky life he lived. Writing to his son helped him see where he had come from, what road he was on now and where he ultimately wanted to end up. If the time to pass his legacy on to his son ever came, Jax could only hope that Abel would be better prepared than he had been. Maybe his path through the Life would be easier and better than the one his father had taken before him.

As was the norm now, Jax's slumber had been uneasy and far from re-energizing. More restless than anything, he had spent most of the night in the darkness of his and Tara's bedroom going over in his mind the minute details of the plans for the day. In a couple of hours, the Club would be making its first run for the Cartel and although Jax had done dozens, even hundreds of similar runs in his life as a gun runner, this one was _different_.

Using a popular weekend bike show as its cover, the Sons would transport their merch to the Cartel using the Tucson charter to run protection. For the well-being of the Club and its members, it was imperative that this first transfer go smoothly. SAMCRO had voted the drugs in to keep the gun deal on the table and their heads on their shoulders. Once the transfer was complete, Jax would evaluate the situation and logistics, look for ways to tighten up their crews for delivery and protection so that the next run—scheduled in another two weeks—would go even smoother. Once transport was perfected and ran like a well-oiled machine, SAMCRO could finalize the deal with the Irish for the bigger guns the Cartel was after.

_Only then can I start planning an exit strategy and set a final end date that will get us out of bed with the Cartel._

A soft, rustling sound caused Jax to look up to find Tara standing in the doorway. His old lady's hair, messy from sleep, trailed over her shoulder and the tank top she wore over a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. Her face was somber and reflective, her eyes on the small spiral notebook on his lap.

"My big bad biker is _journaling_?" she tried to say in a teasing voice. "What are you writing about?"

_Things that I can't share with you because you won't let me_, Jax thought a little bitterly. Electing not to answer, he stood up as he tucked the notebook and pen into his kutte.

"You sleep okay?" he asked.

Tara shrugged her shoulders. "Not really. Jax, I—" she hesitated and then pushed on. "I just feel like this whole situation is a huge mistake," Tara started and watched as Jax's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "I mean, you're not just going to Tucson for a bike show, are you?" she pressed.

"Tara," Jax started soberly. "You know exactly why I'm going."

She sighed heavily. "Yeah, I do," she conceded.

Jax stepped towards her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "If you wanna know more, babe, just ask me."

Tara looked up at Jax with wide eyes. She could tell by the earnest look on his face that he wanted to share as much as she wanted to know, but she couldn't let him. Being the one he unburdened himself with would just make her complicit with how he was allowing this vicious cycle to destroy their lives.

"It's too early in the morning for this shit," Tara replied, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe I should just go back to bed."

Jax's jaw clenched. "Maybe you should," he said evenly, his voice tight as he abruptly let go of her shoulders.

Narrowing her eyes at Jax, Tara let out a frustrated grunt. "Are you ever gonna stop resenting me for not wanting to be a part of this—" she threw her arms open wide as she plopped down on the rocking chair. "This is insane, Jax! Nothing about _this_ is normal and it's not what I signed on for," she said sharply, picking up a stuffed penguin and slamming it on her lap. "I thought we agreed to full disclosure between us _before_ you decided to do something so dangerous and stupid as muling drugs!"

"Full disclosure, yes. But what I didn't agree to was having my old lady questioning me on how I run Club business," he said tersely. "Look, the reality is that this is what has to be done to get the Club solvent and to keep us whole. I'm not doing this for shits and giggles, Tara. I'm doing it for my family—for _you_. If you can't stop second-guessing me and get behind that," Jax said as he headed towards the door, "then maybe it's best that I just keep shit to myself."

Slamming the door behind him, Jax winced and hesitated for a moment as he heard the startled cries of his son before he continued towards the front door and his ride.

* * *

The T-M lot was teeming with activity when Jax pulled in. With several croweaters who had stopped by to see them off attending to their needs, his brothers were going through their last-minute routine checks that needed to get done before going on a long run. They were packing and loading saddle bags, and filling up on the breakfast spread that Gemma had arranged at the Clubhouse to give them a proper send off. Jax sighed, however, as he spotted the Club matriarch making her way over to him. He loved his mother, he really did, but after getting into it with Tara this morning, he wasn't in the mood for any more old lady bullshit today.

"Hey, baby," Gemma said as she approached her son, who after parking his ride was walking towards her. She reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. "You all right?" she asked, noting the mild look of annoyance on his face.

"Yeah," he lied. "I'm fine, just not in the mood to talk, Ma. Is there any food around?"

"Yeah," she said with some caution, nodding at the Clubhouse. "I got some of the girls to come by to make breakfast. There's plenty of hot food."

"Good," he replied, reaching over to give her a brief kiss on the forehead. "I'm gonna go fill up. We'll be hitting the road soon."

Watching her son stomp off, Gemma frowned.

_Something's not right_, she thought grimly. _And __I don't like that shit_.

It didn't matter that Gemma had been in this situation at least a thousand times since the Club started running guns. Every time they took off for a big run, the matriarch always worried about her boys. She had developed quite the poker face over the years, but the worry was always still there. But no matter under what circumstances the Club found themselves in during a long run, Gemma always made the effort to present a positive attitude, doing all she could to make sure the boys left in a good frame of mind, ready to handle whatever shit lay ahead of them.

Unfortunately, it was looking like that wasn't a lesson her son's old lady had learned yet.

_Something must have happened this morning that has Jax pissing the wrong way_, Gemma thought with irritation.

There was just so much damage control Gemma could perform on Tara's behalf. Eventually, she was going to have to get with the program or risk alienating her old man to the point where he started looking for what he wasn't getting from her somewhere else.

With her son as SAMCRO's new President, Gemma realized that on some level she had to take a step back and let the new Queen reign. She got it. She sure as shit didn't like it, but it was the reality and she had to accept it. Being a good old lady meant that you supported not only your old man, but his brothers as well. There were certain things that were expected from an old lady that Tara didn't seem interested in doing for Jax, much less the Club. Not wanting to let either down, it fell on Gemma to pick up the slack.

Jax had looked lost, frustrated and forlorn. It was his old lady's duty to be here, keeping his head straight and focused, showing concern for her man. But with Tara not doing it, someone needed to, especially as Gemma didn't like seeing her son so unhappy. Unhappy bikers made bad decisions, got tangled up in shit. But Gemma knew it wasn't her place to press him on it now, in front of his brothers. While the Club generally respected Gemma, they wouldn't tolerate her pushing in on shit they believed didn't concern her, even when in her mind it did.

Walking over to the Clubhouse, Gemma decided to approach Bobby about feeling Jax out while on this trip. If anyone could get through to her son, get him in a better frame of mind, it would be the father confessor of the Club. But as she entered the main room, her eyes narrowed in thought as she watched her suddenly transformed son, smiling and flirting with Marlowe Guthrie and wondered if her mother's instinct had been right all along.

_Just because they've loved each other since they were teenagers doesn't mean they're meant to be together_.

* * *

_Look at him._ Standing by the kitchen, Marlowe smirked as she observed the scene unfolding in front of her. _The King being waited on by his faithful handmaidens._

Marlowe snorted, watching as two croweaters happily waited on the outlaw biker, rolling her eyes as the SAMCRO President accepted the subservience of the Club women as if it were his rightful due. Jax nodded his appreciation at the croweater placing a plate heavy with food in front him and tossed a wink at the other who poured him a generous serving of coffee.

_Damn, I'm surprised they didn't offer to spoon feed him before retreating backwards, heads bowed to the fuckin' floor._

During the past couple of weeks, Marlowe had witnessed first-hand just how the hang-arounds fawned over and treated the Club members. This, however, seemed like a whole different level of hero worship and she was making her best effort to keep the contents of her stomach from spewing forth. But as the women tended to the SAMCRO President, Marlowe had an errant thought.

_Can't say I blame 'em. He __is__ a pretty one._

Marlowe had been exposed to many a macho tough guy during her time in the Navy and while serving with the Marines. She had always gravitated towards the blond pretty boys and liked them best when they were a little dirty. Tatted up, rugged, and slightly hairy bad boys were a particular weakness of hers and Jax Teller certainly fit the bill as if he were made to order.

It was a damn shame that she would have to deprive herself the pleasure of getting to know that particular work of fine art up close and naked. Now that she had taken the SAMCRO Pres up on his job offer, Marlowe was determined to keep her association with the Club on a strictly business level. Nothing good could possibly come from getting involved with any of the Sons, the worst of which would be having to deal with Happy's cranky ass if he ever found out.

_But that doesn't mean I can't flirt, even if just a little bit._ Marlowe pushed herself away from the wall she was leaning against_._ Besides, she had to thank the man for her new digs.

After all, Jax Teller had been a man of his word. When she had returned from St. Thomas the night before, more than a little worn out from the day's activities, Marlowe had found Kozik waiting for her at the bar.

"Hey, Doc," Kozik smiled brightly. "How's it hanging?"

"It's all good, Koz," Marlowe smiled, placing a hand on the shoulder of his kutte. "I'm tired as fuck, though."

"Well, you had a pretty epic day yesterday," he replied.

"Speaking of which, asshole, I guess I have you to thank for debriefing the Club on my background, huh?" Marlowe crossed her arms and gave the patch a look of faux anger.

"Hey, what you did was a good thing. Don't go hiding that light of yours under a bushel, Doc," Kozik said encouragingly. "Besides, I had a little help in dropping the dime on you, ya know. Tiggy was there too."

"Yeah, I know. Where would Heckle be if not by Jeckle's side?" she said sarcastically.

"Hey, I'm just glad you're gonna stick around in an official capacity, squid," Kozik replied.

"Really? Why?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "I'm not what you might call a subservient kind of woman." Marlowe nodded her head at the small group of croweaters shooting pool. "I'm used to being around tough, crude bad asses and can give as well as I can take. I don't exactly have a filter and tend to say whatever shit hits my brain at any given moment."

"That's all good, Doc. Means you should fit right in," Kozik assured her. "Just know that your gig with the Club is gonna expose you to some shit a lot of the women around here don't know about, including many of the old ladies. As long as you keep it to yourself and know that you have no say in Club business whatsoever, you should be fine." He eyed her soberly.

"I get that," she assured him.

"Good. You should also know that there is a hell of a big difference between you and _them_," the biker said, indicating the croweaters. Draining the last of his beer, Kozik slammed the bottle down on the bar. "Enough of that shit. I'm glad you finally got your ass back here 'cause I've been tasked with showing you where you'll be laying your head down for the foreseeable future. Follow me."

And Marlowe had, and had been pleasantly surprised.

Making a left past the beautiful teal bike displayed in a lighted alcove, Kozik headed down the hall and stopped at the door just across from the Club's gym. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door and threw it open with a flourish.

"So whacha think?" he asked as they walked inside.

Marlowe took a good look around. It was a small and somewhat austere room, with the stripped down full-sized bed that took up a large portion of it. A small night table and dilapidated lamp, chest of drawers, a one-drawer desk and chair completed the room's meager furnishings. It was, however, clean as the hardwood floor looked freshly polished and the furniture was dust-free. Spotting a door in the far corner, Marlowe walked over, opening it to reveal a tiny bathroom with a sink, toilet and—merciful heavens—a shower! With her back to Kozik, Marlowe allowed a wide smile to cross her face before she pulled her features back into a semblance of indifference.

"It'll do," she had replied nonchalantly even though she was doing mental back flips.

_Finally! My own space_.

Marlowe had then spent the next fifteen minutes unpacking the contents of the sea bag she had been living out of as Happy had refused her any drawer space. Kozik had one of the croweaters find her a clean set of bed sheets, a blanket and a pillow that was more than adequate. Marlowe wasn't a girly girl. Accustomed to living on Naval bases and ships, she was a practical woman and had learned to keep her life simple. Simple enough to fit into one bag and unlike the Latina Martha Stewart that had raised her, she didn't need her space to be pretty in order for it to be homey. All that truly mattered at this point in Marlowe's life was that she had her own private room that she did not have to share and a key to keep the rest of the world out.

Her first night in her new digs had been good and best of all it had helped her avoid a confrontation with her brother. With him poised to pull out of the lot shortly and not expected to return for a couple of days, it would give her enough time to figure out what, if any, of her exit from the Navy she would share with him.

Now, as she watched the President go to work on his breakfast, she decided to pay her respects to the head biker before making her way to the hospital to check in on Amelia and Wade.

"So," she said standing across from him. "I see you like a little coffee with your sugar." Marlowe grinned as Jax looked up at her, the canister of sugar in his hand still pouring cheerfully away into his oversized mug of coffee.

"You got a problem with sugar, darlin'?" Jax asked, as he eyed her and set the container down to stir his coffee.

"Nope," she replied succinctly. "Especially since it's obviously not hurting your physique in _any_ way." Suddenly, Jax smiled and she was hit with a 1,000 watts of pure sexual heat.

_Shit, brother, you might want to tone that down a bit. Not sure my heart can take it_, she thought as she felt a slight flush hit her cheeks.

"I'm glad you noticed. Have a seat," he invited and after a brief hesitation, Marlowe pulled a chair out and sat down.

Waving a hand to one of the croweaters, Jax asked Marlowe, "You want some coffee?"

"Uh, sure, I could use a cup, but I can get it—" she started to rise.

"Nah, sit down," Jax shook his head. "Hey, darlin," he addressed the croweater he had beckoned. "Hook Doc up here with a cup of coffee." Jax turned back to Marlowe. "How do you take it?"

"Black is fine."

"Want some food too?"

"No, I'm good."

Jax nodded at the croweater, dismissing her before he turned his attention back to Marlowe. "Sleep well?"

"I did, actually," Marlowe replied with a smile. "Thanks for setting me up with the new digs."

"So the room work out for ya?"

"Absolutely," Marlowe responded, nodding her thanks to the croweater that returned with her mug of steaming hot black coffee, setting it down in front of her. "Much better than the couch."

Jax's eyebrow rose as he cut a stack of pancakes into triangles. "I thought you were sharing a room with Hap."

Marlowe held back a snort. "Only when he wasn't around. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother, but Hap feels about sharing the way he does about spending money. He doesn't like it."

Jax laughed good-naturedly as he looked her in the eyes. Shit, there was so much he wouldn't mind sharing with her, starting with his bed.

Taking a gulp of his coffee, Jax tried to refocus his thoughts away from trying to get into Marlowe's cargo pants and back on business. "You should know I had Juice start checking you out."

Marlowe nodded. "No problem."

"If everything checks out—which I'm sure it will—we'll talk when I get back next week about money and shit," Jax offered.

"Sounds good to me, Pres," Marlowe replied before taking a sip of her piping hot coffee.

"In the meantime," Jax dug into the breast pocket of his kutte and pulled out a set of car keys and placed them on the table in front of Marlowe. "I promised I'd set you up with a temporary ride. There's a cage out there for you, a dark gray Impala parked along the fence."

"Thanks," Marlowe smiled with appreciation and relief as she picked up the car keys by the fob in the shape of a large letter "D". "You have no idea how much this is really going to help me out."

"Don't thank me, Doc. Thank Ope," Jax said and watched the confusion flood Marlowe's face. "The big guy," he said helpfully.

"I know who he is, but why do I need to thank him? Is it his car?" she asked curiously.

"It belonged to his old lady—his _former_ old lady. Ope held onto it after she passed away and it was just sitting in his garage unused. He tuned it up and everything for ya."

"Well, I will definitely thank him then," Marlowe said with appreciation.

Taking another sip of her coffee, she remembered her conversation with Kozik the day before and wondered if she should push the envelope. Figuring that if Jax wanted to know all about her, he should know that she knew a lot about the Club as well.

Biting the bullet, she started, "So, Tucson's a long way for a bike show, huh?"

Jax stopped digging into this breakfast and put his fork down. "Not that long for a biker," he replied as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

"I've never been to one, but I understand that there are all kinds of things one can buy and sell at these events," Marlowe said cautiously.

Jax's eyes never changed expression as they held hers. "I hear that too."

"Well, whatever the Club manages to buy or sell—_if anything_—I just hope it all goes well and without a hitch for you boys," she said evenly and sincerely, her long finger circling the rim of her mug. "I don't wanna start earning my pay just yet, okay?"

"I'll take that under consideration, Doc," Jax replied quietly, a gentle smile on his lips. "Thanks for your concern."

"No problem." Marlowe got up from the table. "Have a safe journey, Pres," she said before heading out to the lot to check on her new ride.

* * *

_**Monday, May 17, 2010**_

_Gun fire. Explosions. The screams of young Marines who had done nothing wrong but follow the orders of a foolhardy officer blindly leading them into a slaughter._

_And blood. So much blood._

"_Shit, Doc! Shit," moaned the Marine stretched out on the rocky terrain of yet another patrol. "Don't take my leg, Doc, please," he cried, his young face streaked with blood, dirt and tears. "Please don't take my leg!" _

_Working efficiently, holding back her emotions and her pity, Marlowe met the young man's terrified eyes. "I'm sorry," she replied over the sounds of gunfire and exploding grenades. "There's nothing else I can do." She picked up the surgical saw made to cut through bone. As the young Marine's terrified screams grew louder, Marlowe heard rapid explosions that seemed to be getting closer and closer._

**BAM! BAM! BAM!**

Jerking upright, a scream nearly tore itself from Marlowe's throat. Her eyes bounced wildly around the darkened room as she tried desperately to remember where she was, the loud pounding continuing to reverberate around the room.

**BAM! BAM! BAM!**

Falling back onto her sweat-covered pillow, Marlowe swallowed hard several times, trying to relieve the dry scratchiness in her throat as she swiped a trembling hand over her brow.

_The door. It's just the fuckin' door_, she kept saying over and over to herself.

"Yeah?" she called out, her voice cracking. Swallowing once more, she tried again. "What the fuck?" she yelled.

"Sorry, Doc," Filthy Phil's soft-spoken reply penetrated the door. "The Pres wants you in the Chapel ASAP."

Taking several deep breaths, Marlowe let out a long exhale. "All right. I'll be there in ten."

Waiting until she heard the ginormous Prospect's footfalls trail away, she wearily sat upright in her bed and fumbled for the lamp on the night stand. Flooding the room with weak light, Marlowe ran a shaky hand through her damp hair.

"Shit," she mumbled. "That one sucked balls."

Untangling her long legs from the bed sheets that she had somehow twisted around herself during her fitful nightmare, Marlowe swung her legs off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Getting up, she headed for the bathroom where she stripped off her tank top and a pair of briefs before jumping in the shower under the stinging hot spray of water. The shower stall may have been small, but there was nothing wrong with the water's temp or pressure.

Five minutes later, she stepped out, dried herself off and slipped into a pair of jeans, a vintage Metallica t-shirt and her boots. Sweeping her damp hair into a ponytail, Marlowe unlocked her door and made her way to the Chapel. She had one minute to spare before finally knocking on the door.

* * *

Sitting as usual at the head of the table and casually smoking a cigarette, Jax Teller waited patiently for the Club's new medic as he contemplated the Tucson run. With the exception of a few unforeseen circumstances—including discovering that SAMTAC had voted in dealing meth and that the charter's former president had been murdered by two members—everything else had gone smoothly. Not only had the Club returned to NorCal with 30 kilos of pure Colombian blow to transfer to Alvarez and his crew, they also carted back the balance due on the first shipment and the down payment for the next, totaling a cool $800,000.

At the rate SAMCRO was doing business with the Cartel, the MC would be solvent sooner rather than later. That is, once the RIRA felt secure enough to commit to selling the heavy artillery Galindo was after and that was unlikely to happen until after several more runs. Nonetheless, Clay was confident that the Irish would agree to the deal and SAMCRO—with the probable exception of Piney, who had refused his cut of the profits—would continue to prosper and live like kings.

The former-President, it seemed, was taking his semi-retirement in stride. For the most part, the transition of power from Clay to Jax had gone smoothly, with Clay showing his support for Jax by joining the gun run to Tucson. With his arthritis flaring up halfway there, the trip for Clay was, quite literally, hell on wheels, making it necessary for Jax to shoot him up with cortisone more than once. Regardless of the discomfort, Clay was glad to be on hand for his son, candidly sharing useful advice on how the exchange should be handled. In many ways, Jax mused, he and his stepfather were on firmer ground in terms of their relationship, even more so than before shit had gotten so twisted between them.

But Jax was determined not to allow this seemingly agreeable side of his stepfather's personality derail him from his plans. Plans that would get the Club out from under the Cartel's thumb at the right time and into a legitimate line of business. A plan that, for right now, he was keeping to himself.

Now that he was back home, all Jax wanted to deal with was some simple Club related shit, even if only for an hour before he headed back to the warehouse for the meet with Alvarez to transfer the coke. He decided that having another meeting with Marlowe Guthrie would serve as a legitimate distraction. The plan was to discuss her duties for the Club and compensation, but the truth was Jax just wanted to be alone with her again, if only just for a little while.

He raised an eyebrow as a loud knock on the Chapel door echoed around the otherwise empty room. Jax checked the time on his prepay and smirked. _Prompt little bitch said 'ten minutes' and meant it, _he thought with some amusement even as he called out, "Come in."

Doing as she was told, Marlowe pushed open the door, her eyes immediately landing on the SAMCRO President. Jax eyed the woman he had thought about more than once during the run as she closed the door behind her.

_Just out the shower and looking hot as fuck_, he thought, taking in the flawless skin of her make up free face. _ She looks tired_, he noted with a slight frown, spotting the tense look in her eyes.

"You a'ight?" he asked.

Marlowe nodded as she stood at attention in front of him. "I'm fine," she replied.

"At ease, sailor, and sit down," Jax nudged his head towards the chair next to him. "Take a load off."

Marlowe pulled out the chair and sat to face Jax. _ Damn, he sure does look good today_, she thought absently. _Looks like the trip to Tucson was a success_, she thought as she quickly took inventory, detecting no damage to the fine work of art she was sure his body was.

"When did you get back?" she asked, dragging her eyes away from his muscled arms and sexy, manly hands and back to his face.

"Last night," he replied with a slight smirk, her open appraisal of him not going unnoticed. "It was pretty late when we pulled into Charming."

Actually, Jax and his brothers had made it back from Tucson at a reasonable hour, but had made a detour to transport the coke to the gun warehouse where they put it under lock and key. It was almost 3 o'clock in the morning by the time Jax managed to slip into bed with a sleeping Tara.

The tension in the Teller household between Jax and his old lady had not eased any in the three days that he had been gone. Tara had been up and out of bed early to prepare for work. Refusing to address the elephant in the room, she had instead chattered inanely about work, the weather, and Abel's next doctor's appointment—_anything_ was open for discussion except the run or the two large stacks of cash she found sitting in an open backpack on the kitchen table. Lugging her large briefcase, Tara had placed a perfunctory kiss on the side of Jax's mouth—almost on his cheek—before heading towards the front door, throwing over her cold shoulder that Elyda would be by in a couple of hours. After checking on his son, who was mercifully still asleep, Jax decided to catch an hour or two of shuteye before showering and leaving the house after the arrival of his son's nanny.

Tara's unwillingness to discuss the Cartel run had forced Jax to add a stop to his morning commute before heading to T-M, giving him the combined pleasure and irritation of paying his mother a visit. And Gemma had been more than a little surprised to see him on her doorstep. Having already heard the news of the Club's successful first run from her old man, she had been busy tucking away the huge stacks of cash Clay had brought home into their safe for temporary safekeeping when her son dropped by.

Being forced to go to his mother for help with something his old lady should have been taking care of had tweaked Jax a little more than he had been willing to admit. But he needed someone to help him arrange for a safe deposit box in Abel's name in order to hide his share of the money and he trusted no one like he trusted his mother.

Shaking off his wandering mind, Jax turned his attention back to the young woman eyeing him with an arched eyebrow. "Sorry, darlin'," he said smoothly. "Didn't mean to let my mind wander."

"S'okay, been there myself," Marlowe shrugged. "You're looking relatively healthy, I must say. I assume everything went well at the bike show since I haven't been called in for my services," she said with an inquiring tone. "And you can tell me to shut the fuck up if you think I'm prying. I won't get offended."

Jax was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. His brow furrowing slightly as he studied her, he used the tip of his thumb to tap the butt of his cigarette in order to flick ashes into the ashtray on the table. For a brief moment, he imagined himself coming home to Marlowe after a run. She wasn't asking for the details of what he had been up to. She just wanted to know that he was okay. That she cared enough to ask made a part of him—and surprisingly, not the part of him below the belt this time—spring to sudden life. His mind quickly moving to the many ways a woman like Marlowe would welcome him as her old man home after a long road trip, Jax forced his gaze away from her mouth, which was made for pleasuring a man.

"Yeah, everything went according to plan, darlin'," Jax replied, licking his own lips suddenly gone dry. "Your brother is in one piece too, by the way."

_Ha! __We'll see how long that lasts_, Marlowe thought sourly. _You might need a new Sergeant-at-Arms if he gives me any more shit_.

Marlowe was well aware that she was living on borrowed time with Happy. The run to Arizona had saved them both from having to discuss the past ten years, including her time in the Navy and her reasons for leaving.

"So," she said cautiously, her hands folded and resting on the beautifully carved Reaper table in front of her. "You wanted to talk."

"Yeah," Jax nodded. "Even with Juice busy on the road, he found some time to run that background check."

"Really? I'm impressed," Marlowe acknowledged sincerely. "It's not always easy getting the kind of Intel I'm sure he was looking for from Uncle Sam about former military personnel."

"Well, don't let the 80's Mohawk fool you," Jax smiled. "Juicy has a lot of contacts, and he can practically make that laptop of his stand up and dance. The info _was_ limited, but he confirmed most of what you told me," he eyed her. "His research combined with Happy vouching for you is all we need. The gig's yours if you want it."

Although Marlowe's expression remained neutral, inwardly she was experiencing feelings of excitement and terror. _Do I want it, especially __after this morning's little wake up call_?

_Yeah, I want it_, Marlowe answered her own question, shoving aside her fearful trepidation.

The opportunity to make a difference again while making some coin was too great a chance to pass up. Helping Wade, while it may have brought up some troublesome memories, had given her a feeling of purpose. The skills she had trained long and hard to attain had come in handy and helping someone in real need had made her feel alive again for the first time in a very long time. Marlowe figured that acting as the Club's faux doctor shouldn't be too difficult a task. But accepting the position as a glorified first-aid nurse to SAMCRO would only happen if she got a couple of things straight with the man in charge.

"I want the gig," she replied firmly. "But first, I'm going to need a few things, the cost of which shouldn't have to come out of my pocket."

_Cheeky bitch_, Jax smiled_. _"I'm listening."

"A proper medical kit for starters," Marlowe replied. "That shitty first aid kit I got stuck working with the other day was pitifully lacking. I'm gonna need more than just gauze bandages and surgical gloves if I'm to look after the Club."

Jax ran a hand over his jaw to hide a smirk. _Damn, I think Dr. Knowles would be a little insulted if she ever heard that_, he thought with a bit of humor.

"Whatever you need, darlin'. Give me a number and I'll have Bobby give you the money."

"Don't you want to know what it is I'll be needing? Some of it might be a bit pricey," Marlowe explained. "And a lot of what I need may be a little hard to come by legally. Medical supply distributors usually only sell directly to hospitals or licensed professionals or would require prescriptions for some equipment. This ain't some shit that you can find because it 'fell off a truck'. Not to mention antibiotics and serious pain killers."

"The drugs aren't a problem. One of our members has a connection for black market 'scripts," Jax replied. "As for the other supplies, I can task Juice to sniff out some contacts for ya." He leaned back in his chair. "The money's not an issue either. My Club's safety is what's important."

Marlowe nodded. "Good. I'm glad to hear that, Jax," she said, using his name for probably the first time since they met, eliciting a smile from him. "I also need us to be clear on one thing," she continued, the smile fading from Jax's face.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to hear, but he didn't want to be disappointed. "And what's that?"

"We both understand that I'm not a doctor, right?" Marlowe asked and Jax nodded slowly. "However, like a doctor, I did take an oath as a Corpsman and while I may no longer be in the Navy, I am proud of the work I did in the service of my country. I still take that oath very seriously, so _a__nyone_ who falls into my care can count on me helping them to the best of my ability. All I ask is that when I'm handling my shit, _no one_ stand in my way to prevent me from doing it."

Taking in the determined expression on her face, Jax nodded slowly. It was clear that Marlowe wasn't just dedicated to her work but was loyal as well. Knowing her for such a short time, Jax was surprised to find himself at ease around her and secure in his decision to bring her onboard in case the need ever arose. It also didn't hurt that having her around, even if only for a few months, would give Tara some breathing room.

"Let's talk compensation. You'll be in Charming for what, three months?"

Shocked at how quickly the conversation had switched, Marlowe nodded briefly.

"Lump sum work for you?" Jax asked, dropping a five-figure amount on Marlowe that was so unexpectedly high that the fact that he had not acknowledged or agreed to her final terms completely went over her head.

"That's a lot of cash," she said with wide eyes.

"It may involve a lot of work. Some of it dangerous, but with your background, I know you can handle it," Jax replied. "Taking care of my brothers will likely be a full-time job, so you will end up earning every penny even if you aren't doctoring the Club's needs."

"Is this where you casually mention that the gig involves me moonlighting as a stripper as well?" she snarked.

"Nah, darlin'. I would never press a woman into service unwillingly," Jax started, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "But I sure as hell won't stand in the way if you ever feel the urge to jump on the pole. You dance for me, however, just know that I'd prefer that the show be a private one," he said suggestively and Marlowe felt herself flush all the way down to her toes. She had been around some bold men before, but with Jax Teller, all she was waiting for was an invitation to fuck right there on the table, tossing her resolve to keep things strictly professional between them right out the window.

Regaining her composure, Marlowe smiled. "I'll keep that in mind, Pres. I'm sure you have a birthday coming up sometime. Although somehow, I don't think Happy would appreciate my sudden career change," she said pointedly.

"Prolly not," Jax shrugged his shoulders and flashed her a wicked grin. "But regardless, you'll earn your way around here." He held out a hand. "So do we have a deal?"

Marlowe hesitated for a moment, before putting her hand in his. As his large hand swallowed her own in a firm, yet gentle grip, Marlowe felt a slight surge of electricity shoot through her body.

_Shit, I may end up giving him a private show after all_, she thought and was downright sure of it when the SAMCRO President covered her hand with his other one and squeezed.

"Welcome to the Club, Doc," he smiled.

* * *

"Well, don't those two make a cozy picture," Clay said under his breath as he puffed on his lit cigar.

"What did ya sae, brutha?" Chibs replied as he sipped on his Jameson.

"Take a look," Clay invited, nodding toward the Chapel.

The patches, who had been comfortably shooting the shit at one of the tables, focused their eyes on the couple exiting the Chapel. Both tall and lean, with Jax topping his companion by several inches, they made a striking pair.

"Aye shite, brutha. Tha's nae to worry about," Chibs said, waving it away. "Tha's jus Doc."

Piney let out a low whistle as he looked over his shoulder. "That broad's a looker. Jax is lucky I've got a good 35 years on him, otherwise he wouldn't stand a chance."

"Stop talking shite Piney, especially as she's Hap's little sister. Unless, of course, ye got a death wish," the Scottish patch grinned, stretching the scars on his face into a huge grin.

"As if dealing with Happy was some new shit to me," Piney muttered as the couple made their way over to the group.

"Well, if it ain't the Geezer Crew," Jax snarked as he came to a halt at the table, eyeing the oldest patch. "I thought your ass was up at the cabin."

"It was, until I ran out of the good shit," Piney replied holding up a shot of Patron. "I heard I missed quite the show too while I was away. And you, my dear, must be the newcomer who knows how to handle her shit." He held out a beefy hand to Marlowe. "Piney Winston, Opie's my spawn."

Marlowe returned the firm grip. "I should've guessed the VP's your son. He's a dead ringer for you, only you're way more handsome," she said with a slightly flirtatious tone that didn't go unnoticed.

Piney grinned. "I think I'm in love."

"A'ight, old man. Keep it in your pants," Jax said, drawing Marlowe's attention back to him and continued the introductions. "Sitting next to him is my stepfather and the former Club president, Clay Morrow."

Clay extended his hand and Marlowe accepted it, noting his slightly swollen fingers. "I believe I already met your wife—I mean, old lady, Gemma."

"Yeah, I heard all about that," Clay replied as Jax raised an eyebrow.

"You never mentioned that you met my Moms."

"I didn't think I had to. After all," she grinned cheekily, "I survived the encounter."

"That shit needs to be put on a fuckin' t-shirt and sold at one of those fundraisers Gem does every year," Piney wheezed through his laughter, giving himself a shot of oxygen.

Jax shook his head ruefully in agreement. "And you've met Chibs."

"Aye, Jackie and never has this ol' biker been told what to do so fast and sharpish by a lass either," Chibs replied knowingly.

"Get used to it, brother, at least when it comes to healing. Marlowe has agreed to help us out for the next few months seeing to our cuts and bruises," the Pres announced.

"Well then, maybe I need to go get a finger or two snapped off it means getting next to a pretty broad like you," Piney said as he flashed her a smile and a wink and in that moment, Marlowe could totally see the younger version of him.

_You must have given your old lady hell_, she thought amused and said so. "You must have been real trouble for the ladies back in the day, huh?"

"No doubt, sweetheart. I can still get up to some shit, you know," Piney retorted.

"Mind your manners, old man," Jax warned as he bent over to kiss the man on the top of his head. "I wish I could stay and protect you from this feisty old biker, but I have some Club shit I need to close on. I trust I'm leaving ya in safe hands."

"And if you're not, what are you gonna do about it, you young asshole?" Piney practically bellowed.

"Not me, brother," Jax said with an evil grin. "But Happy might want a word or two with you," he replied as he gave Marlowe's arm a light squeeze before swaggering out of the Clubhouse.

"Don't jus stand there, lassie. Sit down and join us," Chibs invited, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and shoving it in her direction. Taking it, she turned it around to straddle it.

"Can we offer you something to drink, honey?" Piney asked, waving a hand at the Prospect behind the bar.

"A Coke if you got it," Marlowe replied.

"Not a hard drinker, lass?" Chibs queried.

"Not anymore."

"You don't know what you're missing," Piney replied as the Prospect brought over a fresh bottle of Patron and a can of Coke. "Shithead! At least act like you've been around a woman at some point in your life! Get a glass for the lady," he ordered.

"I ain't no lady. This is fine," she said popping the tab and taking several glugs. As Marlowe put the can done, the Marine tattoo on her forearm came into view.

"Now that is a beautiful sight," Piney sighed. "Right, Clay?"

"Yeah it is," Clay drawled, raising his glass of whiskey. "It's an honor having a fellow Vet around here, Doc."

Marlowe smiled in appreciation. "Thanks," she said, raising her can of Coke. "Vietnam?"

"Hell's yeah! Army, 25th Infantry Division, '67-69," Piney bellowed proudly. "Clay here was 173rd Airborne Brigade."

"And the Scotsman," Clay started indicating Chibs. "Served as a medic in the Queen's Army, Falkland Islands."

"Spent five months in the British Army 'til it was decided that a separation might be in me best interest," Chibs explained cheekily.

As she had with Tig and Kozik, Marlowe spent the next couple of hours getting to know the boisterous men, two of which who were what they called "First 9", or the first members of the Sons of Anarchy. As a matter of fact, Marlowe learned that Piney Winston and his best friend John Teller had co-founded the Club upon their return from Vietnam. JT, as everyone around the table referred to him, had been the first president of the Sons of Anarchy and the current President's father.

"The '60s were a turbulent time, you know this I'm sure. We may have left as boys and returned as men, but we were still just kids trying to reconcile what we had seen and done with the life that was waiting for us back home," Piney explained, his tequila-soaked voice raspy. "It was an unpopular war and we were not welcomed home as heroes."

"No we weren't," Clay agreed with much feeling. "More than just a few of us guys came back broken by society's standards, and no one knew what the hell to do with us. Many of us had always been round pegs trying to fit into square holes to begin with, but 'Nam busted us up, mentally and physically."

"JT knew we could no longer live by society's standards. He wanted to live off the grid, be free, but he missed that sense of brotherhood we had while fighting that Godforsaken war," Piney said. "We may not have known exactly who the enemy was that we were fighting, but we always knew we could count on our brothers to watch our backs."

Marlowe nodded. Undoubtedly, her experiences probably differed greatly from theirs as a woman, but she could definitely relate to the sentiment of brotherhood as she had experienced it herself in Afghanistan. Aside from the work she had done as a Corpsman, what she had missed the most was that sense of belonging. It made complete sense to her that many of the old school motorcycle clubs had been started by military veterans. Marlowe may not have known much about MCs in general, but she did know that the majority of clubs did not allow female members and the Sons were definitely one of those clubs. It didn't matter as she had no interest in riding. She did hope, however, that in her capacity as the Club's medic she would get to enjoy that sense of belonging that she had been missing for so long.

Looking at her watch, Marlowe bit her lip in consternation. "Something wrong, luvvie?" Chibs asked.

She was running late on getting to the rehab center in Modesto to see Amelia, but Marlowe quickly realized that it had been time well spent. "Not at all," she replied, standing up. "But I do have to run if I want to see Hap's mom before her afternoon therapy."

"Say no more, Doc. Priorities and all that shit," Clay said charmingly. "But next time we shoot the shit, promise you're gonna have something a little stronger than Coca-Cola."

"Promise," Marlowe smiled engagingly. She was about to head back to her dorm for her jacket and car keys when a thought occurred. "Chibs, I have no way of contacting the Pres, but if you speak to him before I get back, please let him know that I'd really like to meet his source for 'scripts sooner rather than later."

"Hey," Piney called out. "Seems you already did, sweetheart. If black market 'scripts are what you're looking for, I'm the patch you need," he winked at her. "You let me know when and I'll take you for a little ride," he offered. "I'll even have the bitch seat reinstalled on my bike for the trip."

_It'd be nice having a pretty young thing like Marlowe pressed up against my ass crack again_, Piney thought nostalgically.

"On that trike you ride?" Clay hooted. "Don't you need that space for your oxygen tank?"

"Fuck you!" Piney hollered.

As both Clay and Chibs ganged up on Piney and ribbed him mercilessly, Marlowe smiled, feeling more at home than she knew it was wise to.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Monday, May 17, 2010**_

With the rest of the Club outside standing guard duty until Jax and the Mayans arrived to make the coke transfer, Juice had been left in the gun room of the warehouse to keep a close eye on the Cartel's drugs. Having been one of the members that had voted against trafficking blow for Galindo, Juice had been nervous about how the muling part of the deal would go. Fortunately, the trip to Tucson had been uneventful as far as the Cartel business was concerned. All the Club needed to do now was transfer the shipment over to the Mayans and SAMCRO's first gun/drug run would be complete without any bloodshed.

Sitting on a stool at the large work table in the center of the room, Juice was idly searching through his laptop for connections to anyone who might have an in with a medical supply distributor. When Jax had called earlier with the request, Juice told him it was a long shot, but Jax insisted he give it a try anyway. Apparently, the information he had culled on Marlowe Guthrie had been enough to satisfy the Pres. It looked like she was officially on board as SAMCRO's go-to for medical-related services and Jax wanted to make sure she had everything she needed in case of an emergency.

The fact that Jax thought it was necessary to have someone on retainer in the Clubhouse to take care of their medical needs was a little worrisome to Juice. Maybe Jax was expecting trouble with the Cartel and/or their rivals, Lobos Sonora. Having read up on Marlowe's military combat training as well as her medical education, the expectation that some serious shit had the potential of going down didn't seem that farfetched, especially since she was more than qualified to take care of herself as well as others. On paper, not only did Marlowe have the training, but she had battlefield experience in Afghanistan. But if protecting Tara from any possible threats to the Club had been behind his decision to hire an independent contractor, what didn't make sense was why Jax would hire a woman who was related to another Club member.

Realizing that the need to understand was probably above his pay grade anyway, Juice went back to concentrating on finding a connection when Happy all but busted the door down on his way into the room.

"So asshole," Happy growled without preamble as he advanced on Juice. "What the fuck did you find out?"

Juice eyed the menacing biker and wondered how cowardly it would be if he tried to make a run for the door. "Hey, Hap. Whassup?" He tried for a smile that died on the vine the closer Happy got.

"_Whassup_?" Happy queried with a raised eyebrow. "You know what's up, _pendejo_. I want whatever Intel you gave Jax on Marlowe."

Happy was sure he had reached some milestone in his development as a human being by being able to contain his shit for longer than would be expected otherwise. Being denied the opportunity to crawl up his sister's ass for holding out on information he had a right to know, Happy had left with the Club for the Tucson run. He was well aware, however, that Jax had tasked the Intelligence Officer to run a background check on his sister.

It wasn't the fact that Jax wanted to run one that concerned him. An outlaw for almost twenty years, Happy understood that outsiders brought into working relationships with the Club had to be properly vetted. Marlowe may be family, but she had also been off of Happy's radar for the past ten years. He loved his sister, but he also loved his Club. With little tolerance for faithless bitches, Happy had not taken offense when his President suggested the need for a background check.

What he did take offense to, however, was Marlowe having Jax kick him out of the Chapel while they discussed her history. Afterward, Jax had been tight-lipped about the context of their discussion, suggesting that he wait for Marlowe to decide when she was ready to share. Instead of catching up on some much needed sleep after the run, Happy had expected Marlowe to head out before dawn for her morning run and waited at the bar to confront her. He didn't get the chance because Jax had called, asking him to go relieve Miles who was keeping an eye on the small crew of Prospects they had left at the warehouse to guard the gun room.

After almost five full days since Wade's accident, Happy had run out of patience, which was why he was about to use his steel-toed boots to press down on Juice's balls if he didn't voluntarily give up the shit on Marlowe.

"Look, man," Juice started hesitantly, "Jax asked me to keep what I found confidential. If you want to know shit, maybe you should ask—"

"When I want information, I go directly to the source. Right now, that's _you_, numb nuts," Happy retorted. "As SAA I have a right to know what the fuck is going on in order to protect the Club, so you're gonna tell me what you know right now or I'm gonna t-bag you until you choke on my balls."

"Damn, Hap!" Juice started irritably. "That's some sick Tig-type shit you're threatening me with."

"Good idea," Happy smirked evilly. "I can put a call into Tiggy and make this a threesome. It's up to you."

Happy wasn't exactly known to be a jokey-type of guy, so Juice decided to err on the side of not wanting a set of man-balls dunked into his mouth. "Fuck! All right, but you didn't hear this shit from me."

* * *

It was late afternoon, but Marlowe had lost all track of time.

After visiting Amelia at the rehab center for a couple of hours, Marlowe had returned to the Clubhouse—unknowingly and narrowly missing running into Happy. In her eagerness to get started, Marlowe had missed lunch after skipping breakfast to meet with Jax and had locked herself in her room to work on assembling a shopping list of medical supplies. The task was made infinitely easier when Chibs thoughtfully offered her one of the spare laptops that Juice kept at his surveillance station so that she could do the necessary research. Her stomach was grumbling ferociously for food, but the former Corpsman continued to ignore it as she focused on the task at hand.

Since the Club had its own secure network, Marlowe was able to use the internet to scout out potential medical supply stores to contact in NorCal. So far, she had earmarked a potential source for medical supplies, a store in Lodi located in what seemed to be a shadier part of town that might be amenable to providing her what she needed "under the table" for the right price.

Knowing that Happy was back in town, Marlowe knew she couldn't avoid him forever, but put the inevitable confrontation on the back burner for now. She was an adult woman and more than capable of watching out for herself. Any explanation Happy felt she owed him would come when she was good and ready, not when he dictated that it would.

Suddenly, the door to her small room was shoved open with enough force to send it slamming into the wall. Coolly looking up from the computer screen, Marlowe was confronted by a pair of angry eyes dark as pitch.

"Fuck! Guess I must be good and ready now," she muttered to herself under her breath as she silently closed the laptop and put it in the desk drawer. After all, she saw no need giving Happy some shit to break.

Marlowe watched as he stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. She wondered just how much information she would be able to get away without telling him, but as soon as he opened his mouth, she realized she was done hiding shit from Happy.

"You got out in June '07! Where the fuck have you been?!" Happy bellowed.

Marlowe ran a hand through her hair, inwardly cursing Jax Teller to hell. "Shit, I thought I told your President to keep my business to himself," Marlowe muttered.

"Don't blame him. I didn't hear it from Jax, but I didn't hear it from you either, huh?" Happy said angrily.

By process of elimination, Marlowe quickly connected the dots. "Please tell me you didn't kill this Juice guy. If you did, there's no way I won't be blamed for the death of a patch."

"He's fine," Happy growled. "You, I ain't so sure about unless you start talking like right now! Where the fuck were you for eighteen months before showing up on Ma's fuckin' doorstep?"

Taking in his indignant anger, Marlowe felt her body vibrate with quiet rage. "And after ten years, you give a fuck now? Why?" she asked, slowly rising from her seat. "It's not like you didn't know my ass was in some hot zone fighting a war no one gives a shit about. I kept in touch with Amelia, so I'm sure you knew every step I made."

"Whatever, Marlowe," Happy replied, refusing to acknowledge that he _had_ kept tabs on her through his mother. "But not even Ma knew you'd left the Navy until you showed up on her doorstep," Happy retorted. "I know because I went to talk to her before coming here."

"Then I'm sure she told you exactly where I was for eighteen months," Marlowe said bitterly.

"Bullshit, Marley! You know she would never betray your trust," Happy argued. "Where the fuck were you?"

Crossing her well-defined arms over her chest, Marlowe gave Happy a hard look, convincing the outlaw biker that she was going to clam up just like his mother had less than an hour ago. That's why the next words out of her mouth sent his poker face to hell as he gaped at her in shock.

"I was living in San Diego after the Navy forced me into taking temporary disability leave _after_ I served six months in NAVCONBRIG in Miramar," Marlowe replied nonchalantly.

"What the fuck?" Happy sputtered. "NAVCONBRIG? You served time in a military prison?!"

Marlowe shrugged her shoulders. "Not really. I mean, I was confined to the Brig, but in light of the situation, it could have been worse since I was originally charged with conspiracy to hinder a murder investigation. Had I been court-martialed, then I would have served real time, 25-to-life."

Happy felt as if she had punched him in the gut. "What the fuck are you talking about, Marlowe? What the fuck did you do?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Marlowe ran her hand through her loose hair. "I broke the chain of command by failing to report my medical treatment of two Marines injured during a fragging incident that killed our base commander in Kabul," she explained quietly. "The only thing that kept me from doing hard time was my stellar record up until that point. The Navy spent too much time, money and effort in training me, so instead of booting me, they downgraded my rank and held me in confinement for six months. Uncle Sam let me keep my medals and one-third of my monthly pay while I'm on temporary disability leave."

"What does that mean, temporary disability leave?" he asked just one of the million questions swirling through his brain, making his head hurt. "Are you in or are you out?"

She shook her head. "That's all I'm sharing with you, Hap," Marlowe replied quietly before smirking, unwilling to tell him about her PTSD. "I told Jax everything, which Juice confirmed. If the Intel Officer didn't drop the dime on me, it's probably because the Pres has his nuts in a vise as a favor to me. I see no reason to hash this shit out with you now, not after ten years of you not caring where I was or what I was doing. Why start pretending that you give a shit now?" she asked rhetorically.

_And that's what bothers me the most, isn't it, that he really doesn't give a shit?_ Marlowe huffed to herself, refusing to shed one bloody tear for the outlaw.

But as Happy looked at his sister, he could see the telltale hurt look in her eyes as she stood defiantly in front of him, her back rigid and her brow furrowed. Suddenly, his mother's soft voice echoed through his head.

_Hijo, tell Marley how you really feel. That's all she's ever really wanted from you, to know that you care_.

Biting back his own insecurities—and instead of responding with righteous anger—the outlaw biker approached his sister and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly. "Why the fuck would you think I don't care, Marley?" he asked quietly. "I've cared about your skinny ass since the day I met you, or did you forget that shit?"

Marlowe swallowed the large lump that suddenly formed in her throat. His quiet and calm response taking her for loop, it took her a moment to respond. "That was such a long time ago, Hap. I've been through acres of shit, so yeah, maybe I did forget because you never bothered to remind me," she admitted, her throat hoarse with unshed tears.

"Then maybe it's time I do, little girl."

* * *

_**Bakersfield, CA—May 1990**_

The biker cracked opened bleary eyes as he took in his surroundings.

_Shit, I must have really tied one on if I can't remember where the fuck I am._

Propping himself up on his elbows, Happy let his eyes wander about to get a better look at his accommodations.

_Dump_, he noted, as he looked at the small bedroom, its pale blue paint peeling along the edge of the ceiling and closed door. The tiny closet on the other side of the room seemed to be missing a door and was crammed full of party clothes and stripper shoes. A narrow doorway which probably led to a bathroom was on his side of the room and the one other piece of furniture aside from the queen size bed was a large, mirrored dresser cluttered with all types of beauty shit and cosmetics that some bitches couldn't live without.

Happy finally allowed his eyes to land on the bed's other occupant and noted that the naked woman lying on her stomach was dead to the world. With a raised eyebrow, the outlaw biker had to admit that he was surprised at the find.

_Damn! She's fuckin' hot, _he thought as he let his eyes roam from the long trails of wavy dirty blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, down a smooth back to a flawlessly round ass. Happy smirked to himself as he fell back onto the wafer-thin pillow, little flashes of the night before making it through the fog of his hangover. _Yeah, the bitch is hot alright. A cunt as tight as a vise and a mouth like a fuckin' Hoover_.

Then again, he had never known his brother to lead him astray when it came to pussy. As it turned out, Tig had been dead to rights with his recommendation for strong, cheap drinks and lots of eye candy. Nasty Boots, the strip club up on the I-99 boasted the best talent in the area and the headlining stripper he had picked up had been no exception. She had given him a wild ride during a lap dance in the VIP Room, calling it a preview of what she was capable of if he came home with her once her shift ended. Happy had barely set foot inside her house before she had made good on that promise for the first time that night by blowing him in the darkened living room. He hadn't even had the chance to take off his kutte before shooting his load down her throat. He had picked her up and, following her directions, carried her into her bedroom where he had fucked her six ways to Sunday.

Now, flipping back the thin bed sheet, Happy stretched his muscular 6'2 naked frame as he stepped out of bed and headed for the bathroom. It was time to hit the road before she woke up. Every stripper he had ever fucked in his life turned into a drama queen the minute the sun came up and the last thing he ever had the patience for was dealing with clingy bitches.

* * *

Making do with a quicker than usual shower, mostly due to the lukewarm temperature and low pressure of the water, Happy pulled on his jeans, boots and t-shirt. Picking up his Glock and holster hanging from the bedpost, he slipped it on as he crossed the small room. Grabbing his kutte, which he had taken the time last night to hang neatly from the hook behind the door, he stealthily exited the room as he pulled it on, his piece of ass from the night before still sound asleep. It was only as he headed down the short hallway that he realized that they weren't alone in the small house.

The soft murmur of cartoon voices coming from a television made its way to his ears and put the outlaw biker on alert. Remembering how he and the woman had stumbled about in the darkness through the small house, laughing and groping one another in drunken sexual excitement, Happy had been sure that they were alone. Apparently, he had been wrong and he didn't like that. Sliding his hand under his kutte, his hand encircling the grip of his gun, Happy slowly stepped out of the narrow hallway and into the living room.

And spotted the girl.

She sat cross-legged in a heap of bed sheets on a worn tan sofa. With long hair the color of rich caramel trailing down her back, Happy noted the narrow frame of her body in the thin t-shirt and ragged pair of shorts she was wearing.

"Shit," Happy mumbled under his breath, "she's got a kid."

Happy and kids didn't mix, not even when he had been one himself. He'd had one or two close friends growing up but, for the most part, had been a loner. As a young teenager he had gravitated towards a group of neighborhood toughs that ran the streets who, even though they were considerably older, had embraced him as a part of the group and even taught a young Happy how to boost cars. Happy soon cultivated the scary, menacing persona he was known for today, managing to send kids his own age screaming in abject terror without saying a word. Even now, he was something of the neighborhood boogeyman back home, like Michael Meyers and Jason Voorhees. Only tough little SOBs like Jax Teller and Opie Winston had the nerve to try and engage him in actual conversation, almost always on a dare as the two boys were constantly trying to out-dick each other to prove whose balls were bigger.

However, it seemed that JT and Piney's boys weren't the only ones brave enough to address him. His muttered exclamation of surprise must have been loud enough for the little girl to hear as she responded, her eyes never leaving the 19" box-style television sitting on a dilapidated wooden stand.

"Geez, it's not like I fuckin' bite," she said between spoonfuls of cereal from the large bowl that sat in her lap. "And even if I did, girls don't have cooties. Shannon told me so."

_Damn, _Happy thought, as he bit back an unexpected grin before it broke the surface of his face. _Snarky little bitch._

Ignoring the compulsion to just head for the front door, get on his ride and show up on his Ma's doorstep for his favorite breakfast, Happy sauntered over to the couch. The biker knew he made a large and imposing picture as he stared down at the tiny girl, yet the little bitch seemed not to even notice, as she continued watching TV, her eyes never deviating from the screen.

"Who's Shannon?" Happy growled, thinking it must be one of her friends from school, a little know-it-all bitch the little girl probably looked up to.

Still facing the television, the girl gave a huge sigh to go along with the massive eye roll Happy knew was directed at him. "_My mom_," she replied condescendingly. "You know, the lady that brought you here last night. She doesn't like it when I call her 'Mom', says it makes her feel old."

Happy smirked to himself, thinking sarcastically, _Who would have thought that Cinnamon Swallows wasn't the bitch's real name?_

"You're pretty mouthy for a kid," he said, his tone of voice harsh. He was sure that at any moment the little wisp of a child would jump up and run for the hills.

She didn't.

Instead, she placed her spoon in the now-empty bowl and allowed her eyes to run up and down his long frame, ending at his face. Apparently, she hadn't read the memo about not looking an outlaw biker in the eyes unless you wanted trouble because she did, her deep gray eyes flecked with gold. Cocking her head to the side, she seemed to be reading him before she spoke, the look on her thin face making her appear wise beyond her years.

"Ain't the first time I've heard that, but I'm just being me," she replied with a shrug of her small shoulders. "Hey, Mister, you hungry?" she suddenly asked as if just remembering her manners.

Happy ran his hand through his closely cropped dark hair. "Yeah. Why you askin'?"

At that, the little girl put her bowl on the cluttered coffee table next to a large box of Cap'n Crunch and a container of milk. Getting up, she headed for the kitchen, quickly returning with another similarly large bowl and a spoon. "Sit," she ordered and as Happy gaped at Little Miss Bossy Knickers, she set the bowl on the table, filled it and her own with cereal before adding generous amounts of milk. Gingerly handing over the fresh bowl of cereal to her guest, she grabbed her own, plopped down on the sofa again and continued with her meal.

Picking up the spoon, Happy sat down beside her and dug in, trying not to grin at the girl. _What is it about all bitches feeling the need to feed a man, even a little bitch like this one? It must be part of their genetic makeup or some shit_, Happy decided. His mother was the same way, always feeling it was her obligation to feed anyone and everyone that ever stepped foot in her house.

The two of them sat in silence as they watched G.I. Joe and Cobra go head-to-head. At least she had good taste in Saturday morning cartoons as G.I. Joe was a particular favorite of his.

"I ain't changing the channel, so you gonna have to watch what I'm watching," the girl said without so much as a smile. "They're playing back-to-back episodes of G-Force and the Transformers next."

"That's fine by me," Happy replied around a mouthful of cereal. "But—"

"But what?" the girl challenged.

"I thought little chicks like you watched Rainbow Brite, My Little Pony and shit like that," Happy noted.

The look of disdain on her face was nearly enough to make _him_ cower. _That_ look was probably another thing bitches were just born with, some purely instinctive shit. Rolling her eyes again, she snickered at the biker. "Why would a scary guy like you know about girlie shit like My Little Pony?"

Happy furrowed his brow, suddenly aware that in spite of her bravado, he might actually be frightening to the little spitfire. "You think I'm scary?" he asked and the girl nodded sagely. "Do I scare you?"

She studied him once again with wise gray eyes for what seemed like an eternity before making a "pffft" sound and waving him away. "Puh-lease! Nothing scares me. Not even those Freddy Krueger movies. You can't be a 'fraidy cat if you wanna be a Navy Seal," she said with a grin.

Feeling his mouth about to tug into a smile, Happy coughed rather loudly as a distraction. "You know that bit—chicks like you can't be Navy Seals, right?"

"Says you!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I can be anything I want when I grow up."

Obviously the little bitch had no problem stating her opinion, nor did she have a fear of being around strange men, the latter making Happy feel slightly uneasy. Happy didn't know shit about child development but he if had to guess, he would say the little girl was no more than six—in spite of her potty mouth. Even more disturbing, however, was the fact that she had probably been home alone when he had stumbled into the house with her stripper-whore of a mother in the wee hours of the morning. Despite the fact that he was a single man with no plans of ever having kids of his own, that shit just wasn't settling right with him at all.

Scooping up the last bit of cereal and milk, the girl let out a huge burp and then put her bowl back on the coffee table before turning to her companion. Now that there was a commercial break, it seemed as if the girl was about to turn into a mini-interrogator.

"So what's your name?"

"Happy," he replied, hoping the surliness of his response was enough to indicate that he wasn't interested in giving any explanations as to the origin of his nickname.

Unfortunately for him, she hadn't gotten that memo either.

"_Happy_?! Why would your momma call you 'Happy'? She a fan of Snow White or something?"

The biker sighed and then growled. "She didn't, but it's my name. Now stop asking me shit, a'ight?"

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. "Whoever it was named you Happy ain't too bright," she commented, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "You sure don't look like a 'Happy'. A 'Grumpy' definitely." The little girl started giggling.

"For a little kid, you sure act like a know-it-all."

"I'm not a little kid. I'm eight, almost nine," the girl boasted. "I'm just small for my age is all."

Happy raised an eyebrow. He didn't see how that made a difference. He was willing to bet that if they stood side-by-side, she still wouldn't reach his knees. "So what's your name, smartass?" he found himself asking before he could stop.

"It's Marlowe," Shannon Guthrie replied as she sashayed into the room, her voluptuous body scantily clad in nothing but a thong and short pink robe. "And what the fuck have I told you about bothering my guests, little girl? Now clean up your shit, and take your ass back to your room."

Happy watched as the girl's eyes narrowed with anger. "I wasn't doing nuthin', Shannon. Just talkin'," she mumbled. "And the TV's in here."

"I don't give a shit, little girl. Stop giving me lip and do what I said," her mother ordered, "and like yesterday."

Without a word, Marlowe got up and grabbed the remains of breakfast. Without making eye contact with Happy, she marched off to the kitchen and slammed the door to what was probably her room just off to the side.

* * *

_**Charming, CA – Monday, May 17, 2010**_

"You know, I don't make a habit of rescuing little bitches and bringing them home to Ma," Happy said as he sat next to Marlowe on the bed. "You were the first, last and only."

Marlowe looked up at Happy through her thick lashes. The sting of shame she still felt after all these years made it hard for her to look him in the face. "I never really did thank you for what you did—"

"Marley, don't," Happy stopped her. The thought of the pedophile neighbor Shannon had entrusted to watch over her young daughter on work nights still made his skin crawl. Of all the smiley face tats on his torso, the one he got for that kill had been the most satisfying.

After that first night with Shannon Guthrie, Happy had made it a habit of stopping by for an overnight visit whenever he was in Bakersfield. If he was honest with himself, it hadn't been the stripper pussy that had drawn him back time and again. After meeting young Marlowe, Happy couldn't forget the forlorn look in the little girl's wise gray eyes. It was obvious that the precocious child was being neglected and he just wanted to make sure that the kid was doing okay.

Saturday morning cartoons over giant bowls of cereal became a ritual for them. Before sneaking out on Shannon, Happy would slip Marlowe a few extra bucks so she could properly feed herself when her mother was working. Some six months into his "relationship" with the stripper, Child Protective Services had come calling, threatening to remove the child from the home if Shannon didn't make sure she attended school regularly and hired a babysitter to watch her while she worked. In order to placate the social worker, Shannon paid her next door neighbor Nadine, a woman pushing eighty if she was a day, to keep an eye on Marlowe.

Nadine was old, feeble and sickly and usually in bed before the end of Jeopardy, hours before Shannon's shifts at Nasty Boots even started. Instead of saying no to an easy $100 a week, Nadine had tasked her 50 year old bachelor son who still lived at home to check up on Marlowe a couple of times during the night.

He readily agreed and soon after that, the abuse started.

"Why did you?" Marlowe asked quietly, causing Happy to look at her quizzically. "Rescue me. Why did you do it?"

Happy ran a hand over the five o'clock shadow on his chin. Unlike some of his brothers, Happy had long ago stopped deluding himself, thinking he was one of the good guys because he wasn't. If a situation called for a violent resolution, he never gave it a second thought. Just like there had been no question in his mind that the child-molesting creep preying on Marlowe had to be put down like a rabid dog. He had done that, but why the need to rescue Marlowe by basically kidnapping her?

Reconsidering that thought, Happy realized that he hadn't actually kidnapped her because her whore of a mother hadn't cared what happened to the little girl one way or another. The way Shannon saw it, Happy had done her a great favor by giving her daughter to someone else to raise, and it suddenly dawned on Happy that that was why he'd done it.

Knowing that the child was so unloved by the woman who had given her life had actually hurt his heart. Shannon hadn't thought twice about letting Happy take Marlowe and that had almost blown his mind. There was no way for Shannon to know what Happy's plans for the child had been the night he had taken her away and gave her to his Ma. What if it had been the sick fuck of a neighbor that had offered to take her off Shannon's hands? What would have happened to Marlowe then? Shannon had so little fucks to give about the child that she had never questioned either man's motives for being around the little girl.

How could he explain all that to Marlowe without causing her more pain than necessary? More importantly, how could he explain that the doe-eyed little girl she had been had tugged so hard on his heart that all he could think about was protecting her from further harm without outing himself as a pussy?

"I guess there was just something, eh, I don't know," Happy said soberly, shrugging his shoulders. "Annoyingly familiar about your skinny ass."

Marlowe didn't even try to hide her grin. "Oh yeah?"

Happy nodded. "You had a lot of swagger for a smartass little bitch—"

"Still do," Marlowe preened as she threw back her shoulders and straightened her back.

Happy pursed his lips and made little twitchy movements with his mouth to keep himself from smiling. "Yeah, you do," he agreed with faux-annoyance. Suddenly serious, Happy turned his head in order to look Marlowe in the eyes. "I pulled you out of there because I didn't want to see anyone steal that away from you, understand?"

She nodded. "I do," she replied softly, her eyes falling to her hands as they fidgeted on her lap. "But that's not what I wanted to hear, Hap. I was just hoping that you'd done it because you cared about me."

Happy's brow furrowed and he looked at her with a hard glint in his eyes. "Marley, you know I do—"

"NO!" Marlowe blurted out. "No, Hap, I don't know. Don't you understand that's why we haven't spoken in ten years? After I moved in with Tía, all you ever really did was ignore me or order me to stay out of your way. It took me doing a lot of growing up before I understood that you just don't let a lot of people in there," she said, tapping his chest roughly with an index finger, indicating his heart. "But before that, I was in awe of you and I was so blinded by hero worship that I just thought I was some mistake you wished you hadn't made."

For a brief moment, Happy contemplated pulling out his Glock and shooting himself in the head. _All this touchy-feely bullshit is NOT in my wheelhouse_, he thought grimly.

"Is that why you upped and joined the Navy?" Happy asked, his face screwed up in confused anger. "Because you thought I didn't _care_ about you?"

Marlowe rolled her eyes, reminding Happy of the smart aleck he'd known since she was eight. "Asshole, I joined the Navy because I wanted to be a Seal since I was a kid. By the time I joined, I knew I couldn't be one, but I still wanted to do something that mattered with my life. In spite of what happened—and I don't blame anyone but myself—I have no regrets about joining the Navy. I just—" she hesitated. She was looking at him with big, wide eyes and Happy braced himself for the emotional baggage he knew she was about to unload on him. "You're the closest I've ever come to having a father, Hap. You always protected me like I could only dream a father would. All I ever really wanted from you was to hear you say that . . . you love me. There! I said it," Marlowe jumped up and started pacing the small room.

Happy looked around the room dismally, as if scoping out an escape route. "I didn't think I had to say the goddamn words, Marlowe! I thought my actions spoke for themselves."

Marlowe spun around to face him. "Amelia said it to me all the time. Even Ceci, who was always riding my ass about my grades, showed me more affection than you ever did. I'd count the days until your next visit, only to start counting the seconds until you left once you got there, you were such a cold bastard. Why would you treat me with such kindness in the beginning only to treat me like a leper after? Was it something I did?" she asked forlornly. "And don't say joining the fuckin' Navy because this shit goes farther back than the last ten years."

Happy just looked at her, his poker face firmly in place once again and impassive. He didn't know how to respond to that. He knew the answer, but there was no way to give it to her straight without ripping scabs off old wounds for Marlowe. The truth was, after removing Marlowe from her mother's house, Happy didn't know how to act around her. She had been repeatedly molested by a sick geezer posing as a family friend. The last thing Happy wanted to do was scare the little girl by showering her with affection. He didn't want to confuse her or lose her trust. He would not have been able to live with himself if Marlowe had ever looked at him with the kind of fear she had in her eyes whenever the next door neighbor came into her orbit.

The moment he'd seen it, that look had tipped Happy off to the fact that something was wrong. It had prompted him to question Marlowe until she had fallen apart, sobbing in his arms. He had kept his distance after that because he wanted her to be safe in the knowledge that he would never hurt her like that.

Happy stood up and approaching Marlowe, did something he thought he'd never do again after finding out about the neighbor. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

* * *

Marlowe's head was spinning as she felt herself pressed against the hard planes of Happy's muscled torso. Her arms went limp at her sides, her mind trying to come up with an explanation as to what was going on when it suddenly hit her and she burst into tears.

_He's hugging me!_

Bringing her arms up to wrap around his lean mid-section, Marlowe squeezed him tight as she sobbed into his kutte. She felt him stiffen uncomfortably and knew that this was probably more emotion than he thought he could handle. She actually wanted to stop crying in order to laugh out loud when he suddenly relaxed, running his large, rough hands over her hair as he tried soothing her.

"I'm sorry, Marley," Happy whispered, his voice thick and gravelly. "You did nothing wrong. I'm the big fuckin' asshole for never letting you know how much I love you. You, Ma, Ceci—you're all the blood I have. I don't care whose DNA made you, you _are_ my blood, little girl. You get that?"

Marlowe nodded against his chest before pulling herself away. There was no sense in making this any harder on him than she knew it already was by lingering in his embrace. Swiping at her teary eyes with trembling hands, Marlowe nodded. "I get it and for the record," she managed to smile. "I love you too." Happy stood stiffly, rooted to the spot, his face pulled into a grimace and looking as uncomfortable as Marlowe was sure he felt. "Jesus, Hap! Relax. I won't make you say it again for a really long time, okay? Maybe once every ten years, I promise."

"Needy bitches," he mumbled under his breath before cracking a genuine smile. Now that that was over, however, Happy refused to let Jax have one up on him regarding his own blood. "What the fuck is fragging?"

Marlowe sighed heavily. _Should have known it wasn't going to be that easy_.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know, Hap," Marlowe promised, grabbing her jacket. "But you're taking me out for a real dinner, preferably before I pass out."

* * *

"So," Amelia said soberly, "now you know, hijo."

"No thanks to you," Happy groused.

Sitting in an armchair next to her in the day room of the rehab center, Happy took in his mother's wry expression. Even though Amelia was a little tweaked that he had pulled her out of the Bingo game currently underway in the recreation area, Happy figured her attitude would adjust itself once he took her to task for withholding information on Marlowe.

"You knew all about Marley while I was inside and didn't tell me shit, Ma," he started, a little pissed himself by Amelia's lack of remorse as she interrupted him.

"No, I didn't, hijo, and so what?" his mother replied flippantly. "Marley confided in me and it wasn't my story to tell." She watched as her son's face contorted into a grimace.

"I have the right to know the good and the bad as far as my family is concerned. How can I keep you all safe if you keep hiding shit from me? Instead, you sent me these talky, bullshit letters about Mrs. Alvarez and her dick of a husband when you could have clued me into what Marley was going through," Happy retorted.

Amelia sighed. "Yes, I could have, but this was something you and Marley needed to work out yourselves and it had to wait until she was ready. She's as stubborn as you are, so I'm surprised she told you anything at all. Consider yourself lucky, especially since it could have been much, much worse, hijo. She's _alive_."

"Yeah, I guess you're right about that," he grumbled.

Discovering that Marlowe had spent six months of confinement in what was basically a military prison had shocked him to the core, the last thing the SAA had ever expected to hear. Although Marlowe had tried brushing him off, Happy had been intent on getting the full story and had taken Marlowe out for a decent meal with the caveat that she would finally unburden herself by coming clean with all the details.

Sitting across from him in the small booth of Hanna's Diner, Marlowe explained what fragging meant—the deliberate killing of an unpopular senior officer, usually with an anti-personnel fragmentation grenade. As his sister poured out the story, he sat in silence.

"_Our base commander was a real fuckin' piece of work," Marlowe had begun. "On the one hand, he was young and idealistic, but with a flip of a switch he could also be a self-entitled macho prick. He came from a somewhat wealthy family with deep ties rooted in Washington. I had just finished additional training stateside for my FMF rating and was deployed to his base in Kabul. It didn't take me long to get a read on this guy and it was clear that he wasn't very popular with the men under his command. He was so transparent about his aspirations, wanting to make a name for himself as a big war hero, and his men resented him for it."_

"_Asswipe was setting himself up for a life after war in politics?" Happy guessed and she nodded._

"_That's what everyone assumed, especially after he made a couple of really boneheaded calls, exposing more than a few Marines to danger. The last call he made, however, cost lives," Marlowe looked down into her coffee cup. "A cell of suspected Taliban extremists had targeted a residential area __with the intent of destroying __a clandestine school for girls. They bombed an entire __four-__block __radius__, killing a lot of innocents in the process. By the time U.S. forces caught wind, they had taken off into in the foothills of the mountainous region. Instead of sending a recon team to search the area, the base commander decided to give chase, sending a platoon to flush out and eliminate the insurgents," she said quietly. "Do I even have to tell you that he led us right into a fuckin' slaughter?"_

"_Shit," Happy growled. __She could have been killed__, he thought bitterly._

"_Before we could even tell our asses from our elbows, we were pinned down and fighting for survival. Two Marines went down during the first barrage of gunfire—there was nothing I could do for them. For a while, we managed to hold our position without additional casualties, but—"_

"_But?" Happy prodded._

"_But not for long. A __newbie, a grunt on his first tour caught a grenade. He was our front scout and had tried talking the Commander out of going into this narrow ravine in further pursuit of the insurgents, but he wouldn't listen. Lance Corporal Michaels got hit with a grenade and it was bad. His legs were mangled and it was either amputate or lose him." Marlowe lifted her eyes up to Happy's. "I had to do it, right there, with bullets flying over my head." _

"_Damn, little girl."_

"_By the time reinforcements were able to extract us, we lost two more Marines and four were wounded. It was just me and one other Corpsman and we were neck deep in shit. We made it out by the skin of our teeth, except for Michaels. I couldn't save him. If __I__ had, there would have been no way for the Commander to pin the blame for this shit storm on him. Two days later, three Marines who survived the mission threw several grenades into his command tent and blew him to hell."_

"_He deserved that shit."_

_Marlowe nodded. "__He made decisions that cost people their lives and he took peace of mind from those that survived, so yeah, he deserved to be punished. It was still murder and even though I can't defend what those young men did, I sure as hell understand why they did it."_

"_How did you end up wrapped up in this mess, Marley?" Happy asked dumbfounded._

"_I took an oath, Hap. I mean, I'm not a doctor, but I was entrusted with the health and well-being of the men I served with and when two of those involved came to me with burn wounds," Marlowe shrugged her shoulders and sighed. "I took care of them. I hadn't even heard about __the __base commander getting blown to bits yet, but something told me that shit was off. I patched them up anyway because that was my job. Those bandaged up wounds made them suspects, which led them directly to me, making me a co-conspirator because I didn't report those injuries after learning about the attack. Apparently, the asshole had connections and they were pressing the higher ups to make an example out of everyone—me included." She lifted angry eyes to meet Happy's. "I'd like to think that my military record spoke for itself, but had those injured Marines not testified during their court-martial that I had nothing to do with the fragging, I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I wasn't discharged after confinement, but this temporary disability leave is just for show. After my maximum amount of time on leave is up, I'll get the boot. I just know it."_

Now as he sat with his mother, although Happy despised what had been done to her, he couldn't help but feel grateful that Marlowe had escaped with her life, even if the Navy was calling the leave "temporary". His little sister wasn't a rat and had paid the price because of it, but now that she was home, as far as Hap was concerned, it was all in the past and would stay there. He wasn't, however, going to let his mother off the hook for keeping him out of the loop.

"You and me are going to have to come to a new understanding 'bout not hiding shit from me, but I guess all that matters is that Marley's back now. In a couple of months, you'll be back on your feet and back home in Bakersfield, and you're taking her back with you, too."

"I'm not a child, Kique," Amelia retorted. "I can handle my shit and Marlowe needs to start living her own life again—wherever she chooses to do so."

"Bullshit," he retorted angrily. "You need someone looking after you."

"Aye, don't start," Amelia lamented. "After all, I'm the long-suffering mother of two jailbird children, praying that you both keep your shit together so that no one goes back inside. I'm too old for this shit," she said in a no nonsense tone.

"Yeah, Ma, a'ight already. Stop chewing on my ass," Happy replied before standing up to kiss her on the forehead. "Be good," he threw over his shoulder before heading for the door.

"I always am," she called out to him.

_It's worrying about the two of you that's going to put my ass in an early grave._

* * *

**Glossary**

Pendejo (slang) - idiot, stupid or dumbass

* * *

**A/N: Finally, the two pigheaded-headed children of Amelia Lowman have hashed out their crap, and it's about time too. Although neither one could be called overly communicative, now that Happy knows the truth about Marlowe and she in turn knows that he really does love her, they can move forward with their somewhat twisted relationship. This was a tough chapter for me to write, so I would really love to hear from you guys regarding your thoughts. **

**Kerry, ****a ****faithful reviewer, asked whether or not I plan ****to continue ****posting two chapters a week. I've given ****it ****some thought and ****have ****decided that it entirely depends on you, ****the readers****. In December, I got over 32,000 hits on my stories collectively, which was awesome. ****Unfortunately****, the reviews were not as forthcoming as I would have liked. Just as you guys enjoy reading my stories, I too enjoy ****receiving and learning ways to improve my writing by ****reading your reviews. So here's the deal: I'm thinking of a number in my head in the double-digit area. If I get that number (or more) by the time Thursday rolls around, I will post another chapter. And I will continue ****doing ****that possibly through the end of January. I need the feedback that you guys provide and when you think about it, after posting as much as 6000+ words twice a week, I think I deserve a **_**little**_** love in return. (Pretty please!) :****)**

**Much love, Harlee**


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sons of Anarchy. I do, however, own Marlowe and any other OCs that appear in the 2 Sons Universe.**

* * *

_**Thursday, May 20, 2010**_

_For an old man, he certainly has a lot of get up and go_, Marlowe thought wryly as she sped up on the I-5N.

The Harley-Davidson Tri Glide Ultra may have looked like an upscale combination of tricycle and lawnmower, but it was anything but. If truth be told, Marlowe wondered if Happy was having a hard time keeping up as she eyed her brother riding along side Piney.

It was a beautiful clear spring day as the trio made their way to Rogue River for the express purpose of buying black-market 'scripts.

The last few days had seen Marlowe spending much of her time tooling around NorCal gathering up the needed supplies for her med kit. Built to rival anything that she had carried on her back during her three tours of duty, the huge black backpack now held nearly twenty-five pounds of medical supplies—about half of what she was used to carrying—to fit every possible scenario. All that was missing were the antibiotics and painkillers she may someday need and her kit would be complete.

As promised, Piney Winston—when nudged significantly by his President—had managed to sober himself up enough to reach out to his contact. It apparently paid to have connections, Marlowe marveled, as they had set out the very next day to make the 5½-hour trek to Oregon for the meet. The Impala, which Jax had arranged for her on loan, was a smooth ride. Even though it was at least twenty years old, it was in excellent working condition. Having it at her disposal had been a godsend considering how busy she had been between shopping, running errands and visiting Amelia daily.

_Yeah, it certainly does pay to have the right connections_, she smiled to herself.

Seeing Piney throw on his right signal, Marlowe did the same as they collectively headed towards the next exit.

Having grown up in Bakersfield, Marlowe had never been this far up north before and found the particularly rugged terrain of southwestern Oregon wildly picturesque. It was the perfect time of year to enjoy a scenic drive through the area. What Marlowe hadn't expected, however, was to be dragged off the grid to the back of the beyond in her efforts to score the drugs she needed.

Pulling off the highway behind Happy and Piney, she followed them through a series of back roads before turning onto a dirt road, which—no exaggeration—was more akin to a foot trail. As the sedan dipped and bucked its way through a tight copse of trees and bushes, Marlowe hoped that the undercarriage of the low-riding vehicle could withstand the area better suited for driving an SUV. Fucking up the VP's car was not in her budget as she would need most of the lump sum paid to her by the Club to get back on her feet once she returned to Bakersfield.

Finally, after several miles trudging along at a snail's pace, the small caravan broke through a thicket of trees, spilling into a well-hidden clearing. Pulling her car to a stop under a large tree, Marlowe got out, pushing her sunglasses up into her loose hair in order to fully appreciate the beautiful natural surroundings. Over to her right, Marlowe spotted a decently-sized house. Painted in shades of dark greens and browns, it looked warm and inviting even though it almost blended into the background of surrounding trees.

"Shit," she murmured aloud. "You'd never know it was back here. Excellent camouflaging," she said approvingly.

"That's the point, darlin'," Piney said as he limped over to her. "C'mon, now. Let's get this show on the road."

Walking next to Piney, with Happy following silently behind them, Marlowe watched avidly as she saw movement in the house through the curtained windows. A moment later, the front and screen doors flew open.

"Oh my, look who stopped by to pay me a visit," a woman drawled, leaning against the door frame.

Marlowe raised an eyebrow as Piney made his way up the steps and, grabbing the slender woman by the shoulders, bent over to give her an intimate kiss on the lips. "Hey, there sweetheart."

"There's nothing sweet about me, you old coot," she replied as she brushed back a strand of red hair that escaped the pony tail at the top of her head. "And I see you brought familiar company." She smiled and, to Marlowe's surprise, offered a hand to Happy. "And how are you doing, handsome?"

"I'm fine, ma'am."

_Ma'am_? Marlowe thought perplexed. _I thought it was always 'bitch'._

"How's your mother doing?"

"Pretty good, thanks," Happy replied, somewhat pleasantly. "You really helped me out with those meds."

"I always pay my debts," the woman replied with a smile. "Now, please, introduce me to your friend here."

"This here's my sister, Marlowe. Marley, this is Honey," Happy said.

"So you're the Club's new doctor, huh?" Honey's attractive but slightly wrinkled face smiled as she held out her hand to shake Marlowe's. "Piney mentioned you when he called, even though he _conveniently_ forgot to mention how pretty you are. Nice to know somebody's around to watch out for this old coot."

"Baby, I may be old, but there's still plenty of fire left in the ol' furnace," Piney winked at her and Marlowe was astonished to see the woman, who had to be at least 55, blush.

_Get out_, Marlowe discreetly coughed a smile into her hand. _The old biker's got game_.

"Well, come on in. No point standing on the porch all day," Honey invited.

Walking inside, Marlowe took note of the homey, bohemian-style furnishings in the living room before they made their way past the kitchen. Heading towards the back of the house, Marlowe nearly tripped over a red tabby cat before being ushered into a small room. Watching as Honey pulled on a cord that was discreetly hidden, suddenly a small door popped open, and the woman ushered them inside.

"Damn," Marlowe murmured with the kind of wonderment seen only in children in candy stores. "This is a fuckin' gold mine."

"You can best believe that shit," Honey grinned. "Fortunately, I have a group of honest bikers looking out for me and I have you to thank, Piney. With the word out that I'm under Rogue River's protection, those scum-sucking pissant peckerwoods haven't dared show their faces around here again."

"Just part of the service, darlin'," Piney replied. "Now, I hope you can help my new friend out here, as well as hook me up with my emphysema meds. Vet insurance is a right unfriendly bitch."

"You know I'll always take care of you, Piney," Honey ran a hand over the front of his denim kutte before turning to look at Marlowe. "Gurl, your eyes are as wide as a kid's on Christmas morning. So what can I do you for?"

Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, Marlowe pulled out a list. "Do you have this stuff in stock?"

Honey plucked the reading glasses that were perched on her head and ran her blue eyes over the list. "If I don't have it, it can't be got. I think we can handle all of this with no problem." Bending down to grab an empty cardboard box from underneath a table, she grinned. "Just give me a minute while I fill your order, then we'll talk payment."

* * *

_Dang, even an old geezer has a better chance of getting laid than I do_, Marlowe lamented.

Sitting at the bar, Marlowe used the plastic black stirrer with the head of a silver embossed reaper to stir her club soda and lime. Using the pointed edge to spear one of the two olives floating in the glass, Marlowe crunched down on the salty treat.

It had been a long day. Rising before the crack of dawn, Marlowe had to sacrifice her daily workout in order to get an early start on the road trip to Oregon for her 'scripts. Riding with two ornery bikers, however, had been well worth the sacrifice as they certainly made the trip eventful. Between Piney and Happy, they knew every highway, by-way and shortcut imaginable. That handy piece of biker knowledge, along with cruising at least at 75 miles an hour, had cut the normally 5½-hour journey down to only 4 hours.

_Those two are even better than Google Maps!_ Marlowe smiled to herself.

However, she hadn't been smiling at the prospect of having to make the trip back to Charming on her own. After finalizing their business transaction for the meds Marlowe and Piney had come for, Honey had invited them to stay for lunch. Surprisingly, Marlowe found herself having an enjoyable afternoon as the foursome ate delicious food and cracked open some beers as Piney related the story of how Happy had been introduced to Honey, including a multi-charter shoot out with the aforementioned Meth-dealing peckerwoods. Several hours had passed before Marlowe figured they would soon wear out their welcome and had pushed Happy into making an excuse to leave.

But apparently, for at least one member of their group, the party was just about to get started. With a knowing wink aimed at his brother, Piney announced that he was _too tired_ to make the trip all the way back to Charming. Honey, as if on cue, quickly offered to put him up for the night. In an obvious hurry to get their quality time underway, Piney wasted no time in getting rid of the two third-wheels.

So it had been something of a surprise to Marlowe that, once Happy had gotten them back onto the main highway, he announced that he too was bailing on her ass. He had made the trip with the intention of spending the night at the Rouge River Clubhouse, leaving her to make her way back to Charming alone.

Getting back to the Clubhouse in the early evening, Marlowe spent the next hour refitting her med kit with the new drug supply. Thinking that she might have time to head over to Modesto for a visit with Amelia, who she hadn't heard from all day, Marlowe's call went unanswered in her room. Getting bumped to the main floor switchboard, one of the rehab nurses informed Marlowe that Amelia, after having an early dinner, had made her way down to the recreational room to socialize with what her Tía fondly called the "other inmates."

So finding herself at a loss for something to do, Marlowe made her way out to the bar with her sketch book in hand to find some shit to occupy her time. As usual, even for a weeknight, the Clubhouse was comfortably crowded. There were a number of members and hang-arounds relaxing on the couches or shooting pool while classic rock played in the background through the hidden speakers throughout the Clubhouse's main room.

Filthy Phil was manning the bar and she had asked him to fix her a non-alcoholic drink, which Marlowe now eyed with a grim eye. _To hell with alcohol and Xanax not mixing_, she pushed away her glass. _I need to cut loose a little bit. Maybe some whiskey will do the trick_.

As if someone had been reading her mind, the low, sexy voice of the drink she was really thirsty for came from behind, close to her ear and sending delicious shivers down her spine. _And doing naughty things to my nipples_, Marlowe smiled to herself.

"How's it hanging, Doc?" Jax Teller asked before sliding around the bar to face Marlowe. "I haven't seen you around all day."

_And believe me, darlin', I was looking_.

It had been a quiet day on the lot. With Happy and Piney on a road trip with Marlowe, and Kozik and Tig picking up the slack in the garage while Wade recovered, Jax had spent most of the day locked in the Chapel going over the books with Bobby and then later writing in his journal. Nothing he did, however, succeeded in occupying his mind for long as the SAMCRO President was starting to feel the walls close in on him. He was at the end of his fuckin' rope and felt like an asshole because of it, and all because he was about to lose his fuckin' mind if he didn't get his dick into some willing pussy.

It had been over a week since Tara had last rejected his advances—a rejection that still stung bitterly. For years, Jackson Teller had indulged in the endless parade of pussy through the Clubhouse since the day Tara Knowles had walked out of his life. It partially shamed him that, in a moment of weakness, he actually admitted to her that every time he had been inside a woman, it had been her face he'd seen. He had certainly meant it when he said it and in the months that followed, as the shit had gotten increasingly worse for the Club, Tara had been his oasis, his soothing balm when everything around him went sideways.

After getting out of Stockton, however, the realization that things were no longer the same between them and that the woman who claimed to love him seemed to be slowly pulling away hit Jax like a punch to the gut. Last night had only served to confirm that fact.

After finding every manner possible to avoid having sex with him, Tara had finally relented. It had taken some work to get her in the mood, but when she was finally on board, it hadn't been the same. To Jax, it seemed as if they were just going through the motions, nothing like it had been between them in the past—either as horny teenagers or as reunited lovers after the death of Agent Joshua Kohn.

Towards the end of their encounter, Jax had finally hit his stride and had come, but it was probably the first time in his life he wasn't sure if he had satisfied his partner or not. What had actually caught him off guard, as the ache of physical need finally left his body with his much-needed release and he flung himself onto his back next to his old lady, was realizing that he hadn't been thinking of Tara.

He had been thinking about Marlowe.

Now as he stared at her over the bar, Jax was fast coming to the conclusion that he wasn't interested in getting lukewarm love from his old lady. He wanted some hot, her-ankles-on-his-shoulders sex with the woman sitting in front of him, making her come so hard there would be no doubt in his mind.

Feeling a sense of relief in finally admitting that to himself, Jax suddenly smiled, his lips spreading over gleaming white teeth. His animal magnetism was literally leaping off of him in waves, landing on Marlowe Guthrie and she instantly knew she was in for a shit load of trouble.

Nonetheless, she didn't hesitate in grinning right back at him.

"That's 'cause I was on a little buying trip today," she said. "It's now official: SAMCRO is ready to face any outside threat. Your medic is fully locked and loaded."

"Yes you are," Jax said as he poured two fingers of Jack. "You want, or are you still on the wagon?" He offered her the glass.

"Not tonight, outlaw," she replied with a flirty smile. Taking the glass of whiskey, their fingers grazed and their eyes locked. "Tonight I'm cutting myself loose."

"Well, I guess I showed up just in time, huh?" Jax grinned and grabbed another glass and the bottle of Jack. "Let's go make ourselves more comfortable."

Marlowe slid off the stool, grabbing her drink and her sketchpad. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

Sitting on one of the couches in the far recesses of the main room, Jax and Marlowe sat undisturbed as the buzz of activity surrounded them. Nearly an hour had passed since they had moved their conversation over to the couch and the flirting had long since morphed into heavy sexual innuendo. Although Marlowe had intended to let herself off the chain by getting more than a little tipsy, she decided it would be wiser to pull back and nurse the one drink she had. If she was reading the signals Jax was casually throwing at her correctly—and she knew she was—Marlowe wanted to be completely present and sober when she finally let the SAMCRO President into her pants.

Instead, Marlowe encouraged him—in between their flirting—to talk about the history of the Club and the memorabilia that was scattered throughout the Clubhouse. She was sitting against the armrest opposite Jax, facing him with her long denim-clad legs on the couch and bent at the knees. With her sketchbook open and resting against her lap, Marlowe listened, letting the pencil in her hand drift lazily over the page as she repeatedly looked from her drawing and up to Jax.

"Shit, Doc. I've been talking my fuckin' head off here for the last hour. What the hell are you doing over there?" Jax challenged.

Marlowe smiled coyly, looking him over as he was stretched out comfortably, his sneakered feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table. With one arm hanging over the armrest, he held onto his glass, the heavy silver SONS rings glinting in the light. The other arm was stretched over the back of the couch, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"I'm just having a little fun," Marlowe replied cheekily. "Isn't that allowed in your clubhouse?"

"Only when I say so," he shot back with a wink and a smile.

Perching his smoke between his lips, Jax let his now-free hand fall onto Marlowe's leg, slowly dragging it up to her knee. Distracting Marlowe with the electricity he sent coursing through her body, Jax leaned forward and snagged the sketchbook from her. Flipping it over, he found he was looking at himself.

_Not bad_, he thought with some admiration. She had captured everything about him, right down to the little smirk that was plastered on his face.

"Shit, I look like I'm about to devour your ass."

"Yeah, you do," she murmured softly. "So when you gonna get to it?"

Darkened blue eyes met heather gray ones, the gold flecks in them seemingly shining brighter.

"I thought good girls waited to be asked," Jax drawled a hint of a smile on his lips.

"I wouldn't know. I never said I was a _good_ _girl_," Marlowe replied with a smirk of her own. "What I am is a woman who wants to get laid. But if you're not offering, we can call it a night and I can go to bed all by myself," she said teasingly.

Jax chuckled and shook his head. "Walk away from me now and I'll tackle your ass to the ground, darlin'," he replied calmly.

Marlowe threw her head back and laughed. "You sure do talk a lot of shit, Pres."

Jax flashed her a wolfish grin. "Go ahead, Doc," he prodded. "Try me and we'll see who's talking shit."

_Damn, better not call his bluff 'cause he will do it, _she thought with some amusement, noting the hot look he was giving her.

"Okay," Marlowe smiled. "But can we move our private party to another location?" she suggested and Jax cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her. "I know sex in public seems to be the norm around here, but that's really not my game. I'd prefer getting my freak on without the entire Clubhouse knowing about it. How about I make a quick pit stop in my room before heading out for a drive? We can meet up along the way."

"That's the best fuckin' plan I've heard all day, darlin'," Jax replied and paused a moment to think, his eyes never leaving hers. "You know The Hairy Dog?"

"Yeah, on Crescent and Main, right?"

He nodded. "Meet me there in fifteen."

Grabbing her sketchbook back from Jax, Marlowe stood up and crossed over his legs still perched on the coffee table. "Don't keep me waiting all night," she said softly. "Oh, and make sure you bring plenty of rubbers 'cause you're gonna need 'em, Pres."

Jax watched Marlowe's long and lean form retreat to the dorm area as he rubbed the lower half of his face in an attempt to hide his salivating grin. Fuck! And he thought he was about to jump out of his skin _before_. The next fifteen minutes were going to prove the longest of his life. Taking a deep breath, Jax downed the remainder of his whiskey, deciding to wait a couple of minutes before heading out to his bike. Standing up, he placed his empty glass on the coffee table and turned as he heard someone calling for him.

"Yo, Pres," V-Lin said as he hurriedly approached him. "I was just in the office. Your old lady's on the line. Says she's been trying to reach you on your cell phone."

_Shit! _Jax grimaced as he pulled his prepay from the inside pocket of his kutte. He had forgotten to turn it back on after his meeting with Bobby.

Making his way towards the Clubhouse exit, his conscience suddenly started beating on him with every step he took. Torn, but not wanting to cancel his rendezvous with Marlowe, Jax headed across the lot to take Tara's call, oblivious to the fact that, ultimately, it wouldn't be his choice to make.

* * *

Slamming the door to her dorm shut before locking it, Marlowe made her way back towards the bar.

Never the girly-type when it came to clothes, she was practically clueless when it came to fashion. In the past, that fact had never affected her ability to attract the opposite sex and even though that seemed to be the case with Jax Teller now, Marlowe had big enough eyes to notice the perpetual state of undress of most of the women on the lot. However, not interested in mimicking the whole working class slutty whore-look, Marlowe always made sure she owned at least one decent set of sexy underwear. Although Jax seemed a clothing optional type of man, she was sure even he would appreciate the tastefully erotic garnet red and black lacy bra and panties she had made the trip to her dorm to change into.

_And if all goes according to plan, this will be the one and only time I get to wear 'em after he rips them right off me_, she thought with a grin.

Having had the opportunity to observe him more closely now that she had settled into living at the Clubhouse, Marlowe couldn't help but wonder what was up with the Club President. As far as she could tell, Jax rarely, if ever, indulged himself with the various women practically throwing themselves at him on the lot. Sure, he allowed them to fetch and carry for him like a bunch of dutiful servants, but he always seemed to treat them with a wink and a smile. Almost in a gentlemanly manner, Marlowe realized, if a gentleman outlaw biker could actually exist in this crazy MC universe.

_Whatever!_ she said to herself. Now wasn't the time to think about Jax Teller and other women, not when the thought of spreading her own legs for him had the sexual tension coiled up in the pit of her belly. To her great surprise, Marlowe realized how tightly she was wound by nervous excitement and anticipation. _Maybe having just one drink wasn't a good idea after all_, Marlowe chastised herself, figuring that a little Dutch courage in the form of a tequila shot would be just the ticket to calm her down before heading out for her hook up with Jax.

The decision to make one additional pit stop on her way out had been the fatal flaw in her plans for the evening and later, Marlowe would bitterly regret making it. After all, whoever said that ignorance was bliss knew what the fuck they were talking about. Instead, thanks to SAMCRO's resident Gossip Girls, Marlowe would learn more about Jax than she needed to know if her plans had been to fuck his brains out.

Approaching the bar, Marlowe grinned wryly at the two patches lined up at the bar.

"Hey, Tiggy! Look who's joining the party," Kozik raised a beer at her. "Come on, Doc. Take a load off," he invited.

"Yeah, doll," Tig chimed in as he rolled a joint. "We haven't seen you all day."

"Just for a minute," she said before asking Filthy Phil for a shot of tequila. "I'm actually on my way out to check on Amelia," she improvised.

Kozik took a look at his watch. "It's kind of late, don'tcha think? Ain't visiting hours over by now?" he asked.

"Yeah, but I got an in with one of the nurses," she replied hastily. "She'll let me in for a little bit."

"So where are Hap and Piney?" Tig asked as he lit his joint. "I thought the old man was taking you up to Oregon to get your meds."

"He did and then dumped me for a 'sleepover' with Honey," Marlowe made air quotes and grinned as Kozik rolled his eyes. "Happy decided to visit the Rouge River charter while he was up there."

Kozik shook his head. "It never ceases to amaze me how much game that old man has left."

"Speaking of game, where's Jax?" Tig turned to eye the Prospect who was busy pulling beers for a waiting croweater.

"Oh, V-Lin said he's in the office taking a call from Tara," Phil replied as he slid another beer across the bar. "Said he'd be heading out for a ride after."

Marlowe quirked an eyebrow. _Tara_? _Who the fuck's Tara_?

"Tara? She another croweater?" she asked nonchalantly, her fingers and toes figuratively crossed.

"Nah, Doc. Tara is Jax's old lady," Kozik replied after taking a hit from Tig's joint and passing it back to him.

_What. The. Fuck?_

Marlowe moistened her suddenly dry lips. "He's married," she managed to say casually in spite of the anger simmering just below the surface.

_How the fuck did I not sense that shit__?_

"Nah, they ain't legal and shit," Tig said as he blew out a trail of smoke, "but they been together on and off since they were kids."

Marlowe slowly pushed her untouched shot away from her. "Well, isn't that—_sweet_?" she managed to say through tightly drawn lips.

Far from being a prude, Marlowe wasn't in a position to make snap judgments about how people conducted their personal relationships. After all, she had no illusions about men in general and Happy's brothers in particular. Many men, not just hardcore bikers, would consider stepping out on their women as no big deal. Sex was just sex as long as they came home at night, right? Obviously, Jax Teller wasn't any different or as gentlemanly as she had thought.

Marlowe refused to acknowledge to herself, however, how disappointed she was about that.

Although Marlowe had no problem with jumping head first into some shit, there were some lines she wasn't interested in crossing. Had she found out about Jax's old lady _after_ the fact, there wouldn't have been much she could have done about it then. She would have just chalked it up to water under what she knew would have been a deliciously erotic bridge. Knowledge of it _now_, however, was enough to make her pull back.

"Well, I better head out. I have the prepay Juice gave me in case of an emergency. I think you're right, Koz. It is too late to check on Hap's mom. I'm gonna go catch a movie instead," Marlowe said as she gripped her backpack against her shoulder. "Maybe even a double feature."

"You sure about that, doll? You'd have a better time hanging out with us," Tig suggested. "Now that you have some cash, I feel obligated to try and relieve you of some of that shit. Maybe we can shoot some pool or play a little strip poker," he said wiggling his eyebrows.

"Not tonight, jarhead," Marlowe shot back. "Even though I am pretty deadly with a cue stick, especially when I start swinging it," she said with some heat as she thought about a certain blond-haired biker she wouldn't mind taking a swipe at with a pool cue.

"A'ight. Next time then," he called after her as he and Kozik watched Marlowe's long-legged stride as she stomped towards the exit.

"Shit, did it suddenly get cold in here or what?" Kozik noted. "You get the feeling Doc's a little pissed right now?"

"Are you gonna grow some tits to go along with that pussy of yours?" Tig teased. "Damn, you're turning into a bitch, getting all in touch with your feminine side and shit."

Kozik shook his head as he took the ice cold beer offered to him by the Prospect. "Nah, bro. I'm serious. Something's up with her. It was almost like a fuckin' light switch just went off. She was in a good mood one second and the next she looked like she wanted to step on somebody's nuts."

"Why you gotta complicate shit?" Tig complained. "Broads are broads. There's no figuring them out."

"Maybe she's upset about Tara," Filthy Phil chimed in as he dried off some glasses with a bar towel.

In unison, Tig and Kozik turned to look at him. "What the fuck you talkin' about?" Kozik asked.

"She was fine until you mentioned Tara being the Pres' old lady," Phil replied. Seeing that neither patch was getting the picture, he continued, "Before you got here, Jax and Marlowe were pretty cozy-looking hanging out on the couch over there."

Tig's blue eyes widened crazily. "Holy shit, brother," he laughed, slamming his multi-ringed hand onto the back of Kozik's kutte several times. "You just cock-blocked Jax Teller!"

About to open his mouth to argue the point, it finally dawned on Kozik. "Fuck! He's gonna patch me out of SAMCRO, ain't he?"

Tig sobered up quickly. "Nah, bro," he assured him, much to Kozik's relief, which was short-lived. "If you're lucky, he'll make it quick. A bullet to the back of the head, you won't see it coming." Tig said before he started laughing manically again.

* * *

_**Friday, May 21, 2010**_

Leaning against the Toyota Corolla in one of the bays, Tig lit a cigarette and watched as Jax stomped around the garage. Opening and slamming drawers, the SAMCRO Pres was apparently looking for something that didn't exist and spending a considerable amount of time trying to find it. Finally giving up, Jax threw a wrench clear across the bay, sending it crashing into a pile of hub caps stacked up against the opposite wall before leaving in a huff.

Startled, Kozik pulled his head out from under the hood of the Corolla and stared along with Tig as Jax practically ripped his T-M work shirt off as he headed to the Clubhouse. "Shit, he sure is grumpy today," Kozik noted.

"Uh, you think, princess?" Tig said sarcastically. "And whose fault do you think that is?"

"Shut the fuck up," Kozik replied testily. Hearing the Clubhouse door slam violently from clear across the lot, Kozik shook his head mournfully. "I'm really in the shit, ain't I?"

"If Jax ever finds out that you're the cloud that rained on his parade, you'll be six feet deep in it, brother," Tig said with faux-sorrow. "Kozy, this may be worse than you losing that crate of guns to those ghetto babies and Jax almost kicked your ass then."

"Fuck, Tig! Who knew Doc was clueless about Jax having an old lady?" the blond spiky-haired biker groused as he tossed down the screwdriver he had been working with onto a low bench.

"You know Marley ain't the typical gossipy bitch into everybody's business, bro. She's only been around a few weeks, but I ain't known Doc to poke around in any Club shit," Tig declared.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that I was stepping on some shit between them two?" Kozik stated in his defense. "Besides, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to Marley that Jax has an old lady. She's not like a lot of the women around here, willing to step all over Tara to get their piece of Jax."

Tig nearly choked on his cigarette. "Whoa, whoa, hold on. I like Doc and all, but pussy's pussy, bro. Jax is our brother and if he wanted a piece of that, it's nobody's business but his own that he has an old lady." Tig crossed his arms over his T-M work shirt. "Can't really blame him, you know. That honey pot is smokin'. Wouldn't mind getting my dick wet in that myself."

"You sure don't like living, do ya?" Kozik asked, shaking his head ruefully. "Don't let Happy hear you talking shit about his sister 'cause he _will_ rip your nuts off and serve them up on toothpicks to the prospects."

"Maybe, but not even you can say it wouldn't be worth a shot," Tig replied salaciously. "I think it's pretty clear Jax thought so."

Kozik nodded in agreement. "And he sure was _pissed_ when he came storming back into the Club last night, wasn't he?"

The two men looked at each other and started chuckling as they recalled what they had witnessed the night before.

Having made themselves comfortable on one of the couches with a couple of croweaters after Marlowe had taken off, Tig and Kozik watched as their Pres strode into the Club, making a beeline for the bar. Even over the music playing and raucous chatter and laughter, they clearly heard Jax ask Filthy Phil if he had seen Marlowe. They also heard Phil swallow the massive lump in his throat before informing him that she had headed out to the movies over an hour before.

In spite of the fact that he looked angry enough to spit nails, Jax maintained his cool, grabbing a bottle of Jack from behind the bar before retreating to his room. It was painfully obvious that the "ride" he had ended up taking to clear his head had not been the one he had been hoping for and that Marlowe had indeed bailed on him.

"That look he was sporting last night, that was a biker who wanted to get tangled up in some sheets with a beautiful long-legged bitch, but got blown off instead," Tig shook his head in disbelief. "Shit, that's gotta be a first, man."

"And judging by the wrench he flung across the bay, he's not taking rejection in stride," Kozik noted.

"Why the fuck would he?" Tig asked incredulously. "He's wound so tight lately, I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't getting any at home either."

"What?!" Kozik scoffed. "You're crazy, Tiggy."

"I am, but that don't mean I don't know what I'm talking about," Tig reasoned. "I know that look, bro. See, you've never had an old lady, but I know what that shit's like. I can tell when shit ain't right at home 'cause I've been there myself. My ex-gash was a professional ball-buster and knew how to make my life fuckin' miserable. First weapon in her arsenal was withholding pussy."

"Nah!" Kozik waved him away. "You think?"

Tig nodded. "Sadly, bro, _I know_. When was the last time you seen Tara around the lot? And Jax just got out of the joint. What's up with him staying in his dorm more often than not lately, _by himself_? Smells like trouble in paradise to me, and your cock-blocking last night didn't help neither."

"Okay, I get it. I fucked up," Kozik exclaimed as he slammed the hood of the Corolla closed. "Can we talk about something else now?"

"Sure," Tig said, shrugging his shoulders. "Bobby has been baking in the Clubhouse all morning. I'm gonna go get me some banana bread and coffee, but if I were you, I'd steer clear, stay out of Jax's way in case Shrek the Prospect dropped the dime on ya," he said before heading across the lot, leaving Kozik behind.

"Gee, thanks!" Kozik said sarcastically. "Hey, bring me some!" he called out after Tig, who gave him the one-finger wave over his head. "Asshole!" Kozik muttered under his breath before heading off to find something else to keep him busy and away from the Clubhouse for now.

* * *

Quietly closing the office door, Gemma leaned against the back of it as she contemplated what she had just overheard.

"Wow!" she exclaimed in a low voice, a barely-there smirk on her face. "My son struck out with the new pussy? Tig's right. That _is_ a first."

The SAMCRO matriarch had spent too many years watching women, young and old alike, chasing after her son from the time he had hit puberty. She found it quite amusing—and somewhat surprising—that a woman did exist after all that was immune to his panty-dropping talents. Undeniably sexy, smart and dangerous, and only getting better looking with age, Jax had the uncanny ability to draw the opposite sex to him like flies on horseshit. That deadly combination had certainly attracted the young and painfully naïve Tara Knowles at sixteen and was probably the reason she had returned to Charming after a ten-year absence.

However, Gemma hadn't needed Tigger to point out that something was off between the new King and Queen of Charming. Her own suspicions that trouble was brewing in the Teller-Knowles household had been confirmed by the fact that Jax had not proposed to Tara as he had planned upon his release from Stockton. Although after meeting Amelia Lowman, Gemma thought she had a better sense about Happy's sister and had resigned herself to having the younger woman hanging around, hearing how Marlowe had spurned Jax did little to ease her mind. Gemma knew her son well and knew how much Jax loved a challenge. It was only a matter of time before he tried pressing up on her again, and maybe next time he'd succeed.

But still, Gemma couldn't help but be impressed by Marlowe Guthrie. Rebuffing Jax's advances because she found out about his old lady showed the young woman had integrity, a commodity sorely missing from the current crop of Club whores. Realizing that she was indeed different served to substantially raise Gemma's opinion of her.

Enough so that Gemma was now willing to extend an olive branch.

* * *

_**Saturday, May 22, 2010**_

Closing the door to her dorm behind her quietly, Marlowe slung a towel over her shoulders as she crossed the hall to the open doorway of the Club's gym. Calling it a "gym", however, might have been too generous, but it was certainly what a man would consider one to be: no elliptical equipment, no treadmill or a recumbent bike—just old school weight lifting machines, benches and a shit load of barbells and weights.

It suited Marlowe just fine and now that she had her own digs in the Clubhouse, Marlowe made use of the gym every day. Out of respect to the patches—after all, it was their Club—she tried to get her workouts in when no one was around. Since she barely slept anyway, getting up at five a.m. had become part of her routine, allowing her to get in a solid hour of weight training before going on a five-mile run for cardio.

After being a part of her daily routine for over a decade, Marlowe missed working out during her first weeks in Charming as she had been busy watching over Amelia. But now that Amelia was settled comfortably at the rehab center, Marlowe could now devote her mornings to keeping her body as sharp as her mind. After shelving her plans to hook up with the SAMCRO Pres indefinitely, she felt the need for a sweaty, aggressive workout. Although it paled in comparison to sweaty, aggressive sex, working out would do in a pinch when the need was to get some sort of release for every muscle in her body that ached with pent up energy.

After weeks of not-so-innocent flirting, Marlowe felt robbed of the opportunity to wake up with a smile on her face after vigorously enjoying some alone time with Jax Teller. Thanks to her blasted need to do the right thing, even to her own detriment, she had decided that ducking out of the situation completely was the way to go. Knowing that meeting Jax at The Hairy Dog to tell him that she had changed her mind and why would have been the decent thing to do, she had been so inexplicably hurt and angry that she didn't want to chance seeing him face-to-face.

Instead, she drove to Stockton to catch a couple of movies and stopped at an all-night diner on her way back before finally pulling onto the lot in the wee hours of Friday morning. Seeing Jax's bike parked outside, Marlowe knew she would have to get creative if she wanted to avoid a surely-to-be pissed off biker for the time being. She resolved to deal with the situation when she got slapped in the face with it. In the meantime, she had kept a low profile around the Clubhouse on Friday and had ducked out as soon as she heard Chibs calling everyone in for Church.

With the Friday night party still going on when she returned a few hours ago, she was able to slip back in unnoticed. She had noticed, however, that Jax's bike had not been parked outside this time around. Frustrated with herself that she would let that simple fact bother her, Marlowe tried to force herself into a fitful sleep. Giving up, she waited until the Clubhouse quieted and got up, deciding to start her day off productively, instead of in hiding.

Accustomed to having the gym to herself at this hour, she was caught off guard by the grunting and groaning of a workout in progress. Thinking it might be Jax, Marlowe ordered herself to turn around and go back to her room. Instead, her ever-belligerent nature kept her from backing down from a possible confrontation. Before she could stop herself, Marlowe poked her head inside and spotted Clay Morrow.

"You gonna stand there in the doorway ogling me all day, Doc?"

Marlowe winced slightly as she realized that she had been spotted practically spying on the man. "Didn't plan on it," she drawled, outwardly unperturbed, as she strolled into the gym and approached the former SAMCRO President.

Wearing a pair of cut-off black sweats and a black tank top, Marlowe watched as Clay continued to do bicep curls with the 50lb barbell in his hand and nodded approvingly at the size of the canons he was rocking despite the fact that he had to be in his early 60's.

Marlowe straddled a bench that was opposite him and watched for another moment before speaking. "I wasn't expecting anyone in here this early. I usually have it to myself at this time of the day, especially on a Saturday."

"Yeah," Clay grunted as perspiration dripped down his forehead. "I wasn't planning on being here either, but I couldn't sleep and thought I'd get a little work out in."

Having imbibed a little more than usual at the after-Church party, Clay decided to stay the night in one of the vacant dorms kept for visiting patches. Unfortunately, his sleep of the dead had been interrupted by the pain in his double-damned arthritic pieces of shit he called hands. Clay was not a man to suffer human weaknesses well, especially in himself. He was definitely from macho stock in that he believed that pain was a man's lot in life. It was up to him as to how he dealt with that pain in a way that would make himself an even better man. So refusing to acknowledge that working shit out with his hands was probably the last thing he should be doing, the stubborn old biker had risen from his bed, threw on some clothes and headed to the gym, determined to prove to himself that he was still the man that he had always been.

Which was why it was a damn shame and a huge embarrassment to him when the large barbell slipped out of his suddenly paralyzed—except for the searing pain—hand and crashed to the floor barely missing his foot.

"Shit!" Clay growled.

"Damn, you all right?" Marlowe asked, concern written all over her face.

"Yeah, yeah," Clay muttered as he avoided looking at her in the eyes as he picked up the towel on the bench next to him to wipe his sweaty face. "The hands just like to give me some shit every once in a while is all."

"Arthritis?" she asked matter-of-factly, mindful to keep her voice devoid of compassion. Over the years, Marlowe had met plenty of combat-tested Vets, especially from Vietnam and she knew that the last thing Clay would want was her pity.

"Yeah. How did you know?" Clay asked with a raised eyebrow. The only thing worse then seeing weaknesses in himself was having other people see them too.

"You mean besides Thing One and Thing Two?" Marlowe grinned, referring to Tig and Kozik, as an irritated look crossed Clay's face.

"Damn gossipy bitches those two, huh?" he muttered.

"Uh yeah," she agreed. "But I could also tell by the swelling," she said reaching for his hand. "May I?"

Clay stared at her for a moment and then figuring what the fuck, stretched out his arm and watched as Marlowe took his huge beefy hand in her own.

"Damn, it's the size of a fuckin' dinner plate," she grinned up at him as she turned his hand over. "I bet this shit has seriously damaged some faces along the way. Probably still can too."

"Damn straight," he said practically preening at the praise.

Allowing her hands to wander slowly at first, Marlowe pressed and pulled at his fingers and joints watching Clay's reaction as he winced.

"I bet the pain and stiffness is worse in the mornings, right?"

"Yeah, hurts like a bitch in the mornings. Gem used to shoot me up every few days, but now it's more like every day," he admitted.

"Cortisone?"

"Yeah."

Marlowe released his hand. "Cortisone is good for a temporary fix and can relieve a lot of the symptoms but it's not a cure all. You consider surgery?"

"Yeah and I ain't letting anybody cut up my hands," Clay grumbled, fixing a stern eye on Marlowe in case, somehow, Gemma had recruited the young woman in her mission to have him go under the knife.

"I get it," she replied thoughtfully as she tried to temper her next words. "It's a good thing you're working out but—"

"But?"

"You might want to consider some alternate exercises. Using heavy weights right now can only aggravate the symptoms, make them worse. Now I know using ten pound weights won't maintain those truly impressive cannons your sporting," Marlowe grinned, "but using smaller weights first won't give your hands a beating, let's them warm up and makes the muscles pliable and ready to tackle heavier weights next. There are a few really good techniques and stretches I can show you that will help limber up your hands. If you do them first thing in the morning before you take the cortisone you may notice a little improvement."

"Yeah?" Clay focused narrow eyes on Marlowe. "You're not shitting me?"

"No shit here," Marlowe promised. "Before 9/11, I worked at the base hospital. Part of my duties included overseeing physical therapy. It won't take but a minute or two to run you through the exercises," she shrugged her shoulders. "It can't hurt."

"Maybe not," Clay conceded. "All right."

"Good. Then grab a couple of ten pound weights and let's get started."

Clay stood up and flashed a flirtatious grin. "Thanks, Doc."

Marlowe gave him a slight and serious nod, grinning as soon as Clay turned his back. Eyeing the stiff movements of his hands, she ran a simple routine of exercises she wanted to start him off with first.

_Time to start earning my pay_.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, first of all, have I told you guys lately how much I love you? Oh my gawd, ya'll have made me one happy heifer and for that I thank you, thank you, thank you! I totally love sharing this story with you, but I love it even more when you guys share with me your feelings and thoughts about each chapter. That's a kind of feeling money can't buy and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.**

**I want to acknowledge with a big shout out the 40**** reviewers who took the time to send some love my way, especially those who chose my story to post their first ever official reviews on this site. Your efforts in letting me know how you're receiving my story really mean a lot to me! I know writing reviews isn't always easy for everyone, but when you guys take the time to share with me what made you laugh or cry, or what really pissed you off, it helps me see that I must be doing something right. Every single review meant something to me, with some making me laugh and smile. Thank you so much.**

**As no good deed goes unpunished (hehe), now that some of you lurkers have come out of hiding and into the light, I expect ALL of you to keep reviewing. As long as you do, I will post another two chapters next week. So, let's keep the momentum going by sharing with me your thoughts and gently stated criticisms.**

**As you can see, this chapter had a whole lot of stuff going on. The cat is officially out of the bag about Tara and Marlowe is none too happy about being the last to know that the SAMCRO Pres has an old lady. And even though Jax is no innocent in this situation, you can't help but feel a little bad for the guy.**

**Stay tuned because next Tuesday's chapter is going to blow the roof off the joint when Jax seriously examines his behavior, prompting him to have a heart-to-heart with Marlowe before some truly epic shit hits the fan!**

**Much love, Harlee.**


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